1. in_ernet_dli_2015_163509_2015_163509_English-Prose-Selections-Vol-ii

ENGLISH

PROSE

H.

CRAIK

VOL.

II

FROM

THE

SIXTEENTH

CENTURY

TO

THE

RESTORATION

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED

LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA MADRAS

MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

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TORONTO

ENGLISH PROSE

SELECTIONS

WITH CRITICAL INTRODUCTIONS

BY VARIOUS WRITERS

AND GENERAL INTRODUCTIONS TO EACH PERIOD

EDITED BY

HENRY CRAIK

VOL. II

SIXTEENTH CENTURY TO THE RESTORATION

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED.

ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON

1920

COPYRIGHT

First Edition 1894

Reprinted 1904, 1920

CONTENTS

PAGE

INTRODUCTION . . . The Editor . 1

FRANCIS BACON . . . William Minto . 9

Letter to Lord Burghley . . . 13

Of Studies . . . . 14

Of Marriage and Single Life . . . 15

Of Vainglory . . . . 17

Of Building . . . . 18

On the Vanity of Words without Matter . . 22

Of the True Greatness of a State . . . 24

The Character of Henry VII. . . . 27

The Duties of Judges of Assize . . . 30

The Poisoning of Sir Thomas Overbury . . 33

A Haven after Storm . . . . 36

On the Transmission of Immateriate Virtues . . 40

HAYWARD . . . The Editor . 43

Difficulties in Reign of Edward VI. . . . 46

The Protector Somerset and his Brother . . 48

Public Fears . . . . 51

Queen Elizabeth . . . . 51

The Jesuits . . . . 55

JAMES VI. . . . W. S. M'Cormick 57

On the Education of a Prince . . . 61

Tobacco and Good Manners . . . 64

JOHN SPOTTISWOODE . . . James Miller Dodds 67

The Execution of Queen Mary . . . 69

The Adventures of Mr. John Craig . . 71

vï

ENGLISH PROSE

PAGE

Sir Henry Wotton . . . . A. W. Ward . 75

How to meet the Turk . . . . . 78

To Sir Edmund Bacon . . . . . 80

John Donne . . . George Saintsbury 83

Occasional Mercies . . . . . 86

Salvation . . . . . . 87

The Arithmetic of Sin . . . . . 88

Death . . . . . . 90

To Sir Henry Goodyere . . . . . 92

Ben Jonson . . . . A. W. Ward . 95

De Malignitate Studentiūm . . . . 98

De Bonis et Malis—De Innocentia . . . 98

Notæ Domini S. Albani . . . . 100

Samuel Purchas . . . W. P. Ker . 101

Of the Hill Amara . . . . 102

Sir Thomas Overbury . . . W. S. M'Cormick 107

An Affectate Traveller . . . . 111

A Mere Fellow of an House . . . . 112

A Roaring Boy . . . . . 112

A Franklin . . . . . 113

Robert Burton . . . George Saintsbury 115

Democritus his Utopia . . . . 119

Love of Solitude . . . . 122

Of Repulse . . . . . 126

Charity, the Want of it . . . . 129

Bishop Hall . . . . The Editor . 133

To the High and Mighty Monarch James . 137

Mediation in Church Controversies . . . 138

Besieged in his Palace . . . . 143

Balaam and the Ass . . . . 146

To my Reverend Brethren of the Diocese of Norwich . 147

The Christian's Disposition . . . . 150

Undutiful Sons . . . . 152

Weary Loquacity . . . . 153

CONTENTS

JAMES USSHER . . . EDMUND K. CHAMBERS 157

Of Purgatory, and Prayer for the Dead . . . 160

JOHN SELDEN . . . IV. S. McCormick 165

A Scholar's Defence . . . 169

The first Payment of Tithes in England . . . 170

Measure of Things . . . 172

Opinion . . . 172

Logic and Rhetoric . . . 173

LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY . . . IV. P. Ker 175

Lord Herbert of Cherbury in Paris . . . 178

JOHN HALES . . . IV. Wallace . 183

All Differences do not involve Schism . . . 186

False Proofs . . . 188

WILLIAM DRUMMOND . . . IV. S. McCormick 191

A Reverie on Death . . . 196

GEORGE HERBERT . . . Alfred Ainger . 203

The Parson Preaching . . . 205

The Parson on Sundays . . . 207

THOMAS HOBBES . . . George Saintsbury 209

The Causes of Mutual Fear . . . 214

The State of War . . . 215

Natural Religion . . . 217

The Race . . . 218

Love . . . 219

The Inconveniences of Government . . . 220

How the Presbyterians grew strong . . . 221

THOMAS MAY . . . E. K. Chambers . 225

The Argument of his History . . . 227

Strafford . . . 228

The Queen Mother . . . 229

The Battle of Edgehill . . . 231

JAMES HOWELL . . . George Saintsbury 235

The Murder of Buckingham . . . 238.

viii

The White Bird

Howell's Sabbath Devotions

The Pied Piper

Wines

HEYLYN

The Editor

Fuller as an Historian

A Royal Progress

Strafford and the King

John Knox

WILLIAM CHILLINGWORTH

W. Wallace

Scripture Intelligible

Faith and Understanding

SAMUEL RUTHERFORD

James Miller Dodds

Flight no lawful means of Escape for an oppressed People

Letter to Jean Brown

Violent and Natural Death

JOHN EARLE

A. W. Ward

A Pretender to Learning

A Sceptic in Religion

A Vulgar-Spirited Man

OWEN FELLTHAM

A. I. Fitzroy

A Friend and Enemy, when most dangerous

Of Preaching

Description of a Dutch House

SIR KENELM DIGBY

The Editor

An Extract from a Ship's Log

The Maxims of Self-contentment

The Soul's Excellence

SIR THOMAS URQUHART

George Saintsbury

Doctor Seaton

The Design of the Third Book, entitled Cleronomaporia

SIR THOMAS BROWNE

George Saintsbury

Part of Address to Reader

Of Griffins

CONTENTS

Faith in Mysteries . . . . . . 322

A Providence in Fortune . . . . . 323

Of the Nature of Angels . . . . . 324

The Soul Illimitable . . . . . 326

Sleep . . . . . . . 328

The Vanity of Ambition . . . . . 328

Imagination sweetens Life . . . . . 331

Something to be Loved in all . . . . 332

Walk not with Leadcn Sandals . . . . 333

Temperance in Pleasure . . . . . 334

The Limits of Felicity . . . . . 334

Un-man not Thyself . . . . . 335

Izaak Walton . Edmund Gosse . 339

What we owe to the Birds . . . . 343

Angling an Art . . . . . 344

The Otter Hunt . . . . . 345

The Milkmaid's Song . . . . 346

The Blessing of Content . . . . . 348

A Vision . . . . . . 349

George Herbert at Bemerton . . . . 351

Dr. Sanderson at Boothby Pannel . . . . 352

Mrs. Hutchinson . W. P. Ker . 355

Lambert, 1659 . . . . . 358

Bulstrode Whitelocke . W. Wallace . 363

Ship Money . . . . . 365

A Conference with the King . . . . 366

The Trial of the King . . . . 369

Thomas Fuller . George Saintsbury . 373

The Natural Commodities of Hampshire . . . 377

John of Trevisa and Geoffrey Chaucer . . . 379

The Good Yeoman . . . . . 381

Ejaculations : their Privilege . . . . 384

An Ill Match . . . . . 385

The Imprisonment and Ransom of King Richard . . 385

Fuller's Farewell to Exeter on the Eve of its Surrender . 387

Lord Clarendon

The Death of Strafford . . . . 394

The City of London . . . . 397

Character of Hampden . . . . 399

Character of Lord Falkland . . . . 401

Character of Charles I. . . . . 411

Character of Cromwell . . . . 414

Clarendon's Early Friends . . . . 420

Clarendon's Early Manhood . . . . 422

Character of Himself . . . . 426

Fealty against Conscience . . . . 428

Hopes of Peace Frustrated . . . . 429

Causes of the Corruption which followed the Restoration . . . 437

The Stuart Family . . . . 440

Clarendon's Letter to the King . . . . 440

John Milton . . . . A. W. Ward 443

The Deliverance of England . . . . 464

Not the Praise, but the Cause . . . . 466

Himself a True Poem . . . . 469

The New Inquisition . . . . 471

The Search after Truth . . . . 474

The Punishment of Tyrants . . . . 475

The King's Misgovernment . . . . 477

Justice above the King . . . . 480

Persecution, Papist and Protestant . . . . 483

A Perpetual Grand Council of the Nation . . . 484

Robert Leighton . . . . E. K. Chambers 489

The Flower of the Grass . . . . 492

The Vanity of Life . . . . 493

Life and Death . . . . 495

David and Solomon : their Experience of Life . . . 496

Renunciation . . . . 497

The Comfort of Belief . . . . 498

The Inheritance . . . . 500

Spiritual Sunshine . . . . 501

CONTENTS

xi

James Harrington . . George Saintsbury

The Political Wisdom of Girls . . 506

The Case for the Agrarian . . 509

The Speech of the Lord Epimonus de Garrula . . 511

Inequality in Commonwealths . . 513

Samuel Butler . . W. P. Ker . . 517

A Rabble . . 520

An Opinionater . . 521

A Rebel . . 522

An Hector . . 523

Jeremy Taylor . . J. H. Overton . . 525

Holiness the Way to Knowledge . . 529

The Responsibilities of a Bishop . . 531

Of Contentedness in all Estates and Accidents . . 533

Of the Practice of Patience . . 537

On Set Forms of Liturgy . . 538

On Difference of Opinion . . 539

Bishop Wilkins . . The Editor . . 543

A Journey to the Moon Possible . . 546

Authority of the Ancients . . 549

Motion of the Earth Possible . . 552

Henry More . . E. K. Chambers . . 553

The Dream of Bathynous . . 555

The Obscurity of the Christian Religion . . 559

Design in the Animal World . . 562

Richard Baxter . . J. H. Overton . . 567

The Knowledge of God . . 570

The Heart in Heaven . . 571

Abraham Cowley . . A. W. Ward . . 573

The Use of Leisure . . 577

A Small Thing, but Mine Own . . 578

A Maxim Criticised . . 578

Poetry as a Mistress . . 579

xii

ENGLISH PROSE

Ralph Cudworth

.

.

.

A. I. Fitzroy

.

581

On the Incorporeality of the Deity

.

.

.

583

Against Arbitrary Decrees

.

.

.

584

On the Exercise of the Will

.

.

.

.

J

.

On Christ's Christianity

.

.

.

586

Sir Roger L'Estrange

.

.

J. H. Millar

.

589

The Fox and the Raven

.

.

.

.

591

The Daw and Borrowed Plumes

.

.

.

591

The Fox and the Sick Lion

.

.

.

592

The Ape and the Dolphin

.

.

.

592

NOTES

.

.

.

.

.

.

595

INTRODUCTION

THE authors represented in this volume begin with men whose

life belonged in part to the reign of Elizabeth ; they end with

those who had reached manhood before the close of the Common-

wealth. The period was a critical one for English prose. The

glory and the daring; the marvellous creative power of the

Elizabethan age-these were gone, and our literature was about

to pass through a severe ordeal. The rich harvest which the

Elizabethans had gathered was drawn from two sources. Some-

thing had been inherited from the native stock, which could trace

its origin back to ages long before that of Chaucer. There had

'been no slight intermixture therein of the formal and unnatural-

of the pedagogic, and even of the pedantic. But it had its

excellences as well. It saved itself by its simplicity and direct-

ness ; by its marvellous power of using for literary purposes the

language of everyday life ; above all, by its faculty of assimilating

the romantic spirit, which set it free from the artificialities of the

homily, and gave to it the quickening force of artistic effort. The

native stock, then, was barren neither in promise nor in perform-

ance when there came to it the breath of a new life, partly

stimulating, partly controlling, from the Classical and Romance

literatures. It was the glory of the Elizabethans to absorb these

without losing what was best and most characteristic in the native

stock. It was through this added wealth that they achieved

their greatness. But their achievements did not belong, in any

large part, to the domain of prose. What they did in that domain

was, at the best, to show what were the possibilities of English

prose. We have books, indeed, both before the age of Elizabeth,

VOL. II

and others produced in that age, which show a charm of diction that later ages may strive in vain to reproduce. But such books belong to no school; they conform to no set mode; they haunt us with a reminiscence of the poetical romance, and contain no germ that can develop into a full tree, much less spread into a forest. It would be possible to speculate how the defects might have been supplied, how the secret might have been solved, and a standard for prose fixed as securely as for poetry. All that was hardest of attainment it would seem that the Elizabethans had attained. What they wanted we might judge was but a trick of art. But whether they cared not for the achievement, or the achievement was impossible, they reached to no such perfection, and left no such memory of their sway, in prose as in poetry. The Elizabethan prose did, indeed, in some high examples, show that it had not forgotten the simplicity, the directness, the wealth of romance, and that it was ready also to claim its inheritance in a larger language, enriched by the classics; but for the most part these two streams run apart and do not mingle, and even in such a detail as the choice of words, the Elizabethans often indicate their debt to each rather by a copious variation of their vocabulary, by a deliberate repetition of the same word in its native and in its classical dress, than by any power of moulding a new and richer language, and a more lissome style, out of the double storehouses at their disposal. The poets and the dramatists of the age of Elizabeth completed their work quickly, and attained, by leaps and bounds, to the consummate perfection of their diction. But prose style grows more slowly; and its growth is hindered rather than quickened by the very variety of its subject. Poetry is more apt to reflect the forms of monarchy; it has its set usages, its prescribed modes, its court terms; and even he who can do but little towards extending its sway, generally recognises and obeys its current fashions. But prose, on the other hand, governs only as a republic. Each individual writer would fain interpret its dictates after his own fashion. According to what he has to say, according to the story he has to tell, the argument he has to support, the theory he has to develop, his prose style must vary. More than half of those who write scarcely think of the form in which they cast their story or their thoughts. It is only when they have passed their apprenticeship in the art that they become conscious of the rules, and recognise with submission how few those are, and how con-

summate should be their endowments, who dare attempt to deviate from these rules, and impose upon the republic a style of their own.

It is quite possible to conceive that a new and stronger effort of the glory and the rapture of the Elizabethans might have done much to enrich us with a prose style as consummate and as commanding as that of their poetry.

Whether it could have endured is another matter. Prose has to serve purposes so various, and often so vile, that it is hard to conceive it possible for it to abide by any type of perfect and unadulterated form.

However that might have been, no such conquest was achieved by the age of Elizabeth. Its glories faded, its rapture grew cold, its creative power waned, before it accomplished for prose what it did for poetry ; and it was left for future generations slowly to travel, step by step, to a prose style ; first, to become artificial and involved ; then, by means of individual whims and caprices, to learn variety ; thereafter to conform to rule, and to acquire stateliness and formality ; then to dwindle off, in the decrepitude of age, to modishness, tawdriness, slipshod familiarity, or, worse than all, the narrow groove of technicality—leaving it to the unaided power of each writer to rescue himself from the prevailing vice of the style of his day.

To understand how different is our debt to the Elizabethans in poetry and in prose, let us remember how close is the bond that binds Tennyson to Spenser, and how hopeless it would be for any one to repeat the style of Bacon without suggesting the impression of a masquerade.

But if the age of Elizabeth did not leave to us in prose, as in poetry, the rich inheritance of its imperial sway, it yet gave us an indication of what it might have achieved in prose. This volume opens with Bacon ; and in scarcely any author can we trace such possibilities of style as in his pages.

It is true that much of Bacon's work loses its place as the highest literature by reason of its technicality. We have to study his style at its best, not in his most recondite, but in his most popular books.

Setting aside that one amongst the Elizabethans who brooks no comparison, either in his own or any age, there is none in whom the rich endowment of his generation centres more notably than in Bacon.

More than any one he showed in perfection that union of literature with practical wisdom which we can trace in so many from the days of Sir Thomas More to his own. None showed such variety of expression, and none with more consummate skill could bend

to his purpose the resources of his own tongue blended with the

added stores of classicism. He could bring to his prose just the

right tincture of classical dignity, without losing that pungency of

savour which came from the tradition of direct and familiar

speech which was of native growth. Never losing its charac-

teristic individuality, he can yet vary his style with his theme ;

and the expression fits his thought with such perfection that (as

is remarked in the introduction to the extracts which follow) it

seems as if his aphorisms, and the thoughts that flower about

them, often grew out of the aptness of a phrase that has suggested

itself to his fancy.

But the promise of Bacon did not endure. The conditions of

the time were adverse, even had the genius of the Elizabethans

not waned, after the efforts they had made and the achievements

they had won. To an age of creation there succeeded one of

analysis. One of the first to point out the decadence in prose

which followed the age of Elizabeth was Dean Swift ; and this

" the best and truest ornament of most things in human life."

decadence he finds to consist chiefly in the loss of simplicity—"

It is to that loss of simplicity that Swift traces back even the vices

of English prose in his own day, which he would fain correct

by the dictates of an Academy—a device least of all suited

for a style so defiant of all rule and fashion as that of Swift

himself.

Swift's proposal was due to his conviction that the loss of

simplicity was owing to the absence of any controlling force, and

such a force, it is conceivable, might have come through the

instinctive obedience which is paid to genius. The genius of the

Elizabethans did not exact that obedience in prose as it did in

poetry. And the altered conditions soon made it impossible.

New inquiries aroused curiosity, new interests claimed attention,

that prose style should conform to one simple fashion, or mould

new controversies occupied the field ; it soon became impossible

itself after one type, however perfect. Before English prose came

to acquire regularity, and established for itself some sort of

standard, more than three generations—each of them eventful,

stirring, and contentious—were to pass ; the old simplicity and

directness, the old echo of a homely colloquialism, were almost

overwhelmed beneath an unavoidable artificiality ; and the new

style was evolved out of a century of struggle and disorder.

One conspicuous fashion in the prose of the Elizabethans

transmitted itself to the Jacobean age—that of Euphuism. We may easily exaggerate the evils of the fashion, and caricature its absurdities. But it was not the product solely of affectation. It was its misfortune rather than its fault that it never commanded the allegiance of any consummate artist, who might have used what was good in it, and discarded what was bad. In the instinct that prose style must, in order to attain literary perfection, set before itself a certain standard of grace, and not be too timid of formality, Euphuism was right; and we are the richer for the efforts of the Euphuists. The fashion lingered on to the next generation; but it lingered with more depth and earnestness of feeling. Take, for instance, the Euphuism, if we may so call it, of Donne. His quaintnesses and oddities are not due to extravagance, but rather to the very earnestness which seeks to enforce itself by strained expressions. It is to this quality that we owe what the seventeenth century called wit. Its object was not to excite laughter, but to compel attention, and stimulate curiosity, by a subtle intricacy which aroused and startled the reader, and which reveals the writer's inmost personality. To a later age it may seem quaint and curious, even affected; but to understand it so in a seventeenth-century writer is to misread the literature of the day.

But side by side with this many influences were at work. As the century advanced men took sides in the pitched battles of religion and politics; and the literary instinct was often overpowered by the controversial. The works of the time inevitably fell into groups according to their adherence to one side or the other, and each of these groups had its own fashions and modes. Men wrote too hotly and too eagerly to study style. We must add to this, that even on the literary side they were torn in different directions. There was an antagonism in their minds between the reverence for authority, the imitation of classical works, and the stubbornness of independence. The antagonism is often seen working in the same men—conspicuously in the case of such a man as Ben Jonson. The very multiplicity of their subjects bewilders them, and gives them something of fantastic variety by their discursiveness, as in the case of Burton. The force and directness of the drama had given place to minute analysis of character, as in Overbury, Earle, and Samuel Butler. Sometimes the classicism overpowers originality, as in the slavish copying of classical models by Hayward and

May. Sometimes style seems to be everything, and a writer never loses sight of the formal dignity of address befitting his calling, as in Sir Thomas Browne or Sir Kenelm Digby, or Drummond. Sometimes, again, style seems to be altogether neglected, and the writer is absorbed only in his subject, as with Selden, Lord Herbert of Cherbury, and Ussher. Sometimes the most fantastic, either in style or subject, seems to be the only object of pursuit—as with the extravagances of Urquhart, the odd eccentricities of Fuller, or the whimsical theories of Harrington. No literature ever passed through the throes of a severer struggle; none was ever more near to losing all balance in the wilderness of variety, the only saving quality of which was its thorough earnestness.

But with all this, there was a steady development. English prose had perhaps lost its best chance of rising to the highest level when the Elizabethan age passed without leaving a standard warranted by its authority. The floods of controversy, of misdirected effort, of exaggerated individualism, passed over it. But in time it attained to a more serene atmosphere. In Jeremy Taylor, and we might add, in a lesser degree, in Leighton, we see the evolution of order from disorder. Taylor inherited something from the Euphuists: he caught his note of earnestness from such a man as Donne; but in his prose we have a sense of greater security and restfulness than in any that had gone before. The fretfulness of controversy, the restlessness of individualism, the perpetual pursuit of intricacy, and the ceaseless desire to startle the reader, all the scare calming down. The note of his books is earnestness; but it is earnestness which flows calmly.

Contrast his prose with that of Milton, powerful as that is with the very heat of the fight, and sounding as it were with the echo of the war-trumpet. We cannot deny its power, we cannot resist its excitement. But yet we are compelled to hear in it rather the echoes of what had gone before than to recognise it as the harbinger of a new and more self-contained prose. To Milton prose was an unnatural medium, which he never subdued to his purposes. As a prose writer he commands admiration only where he enlists sympathy. He used the weapon provided for him by his age with consummate power: but it was a weapon which he seized as he found it, which owed its force to the arm that wielded it, and which he left with no sharpness added to its temper, no new polish to its surface, no new facility in its contrivance.

On the whole the elements of greatest hopefulness for English prose—its earnestness, its dignity, its conscious grace—were perhaps best summed up, in that age, in Jeremy Taylor: and to him more than to any other may be ascribed the handing on of the torch from the preceding to the next generation, and the preserving of its flame clear and undimmed amidst the heated struggles and cloudy controversies of the time. But others played no small part in the development of English prose. The glory of Taylor is shared by Clarendon, whose work, with all the occasional involution and irregularity of his style, stands unrivalled for its vivid picture of the Epic struggle in which he had played so conspicuous a part : for its careful adjustment of the parts, and above all for the surpassing skill of its character drawing. The chief impression of his prose is its studied restraint, and the instinct which makes him feel the exact point at which description should cease, and which compels his readers to accept each sentence, not as a mere literary ornament, but as contributing something essential to the description in hand. A history written under such conditions as that of Clarendon can never, in the nature of things, become a type which any successors could follow ; but none the less, in spite of all its irregularities, his prose has left as distinct an impression on our literature as his personal action has upon our constitution.

Another strain of English prose has to be taken into account in estimating the inheritance which this age bequeathed. From Hales and Chillingworth to Cudworth and Henry More there is a distinct genealogical connexion. Prose style was in no wise the aim, nor did it engage much of the attention of the English Rationalists or Platonists. But undoubtedly their work, in its care, its balanced thought, its elaborate arrangement of argument, above all in its air of philosophic calmness, did impart something of its character to later English prose. Doubtless the range of such writings must be small, and their influence cannot tell powerfully on the form of a general literary movement. Fancy, imagination, humour—these stand outside their sphere, and yet by these literary form must be largely shaped. But the language of the schools must still play its part ; and it was something that alongside of the strained but powerful phrases of a philosopher like Hobbes, and the amorphous diction of such a writer on religion as Lord Herbert of Cherbury, there should be carried on the sane, albeit somewhat tame, moderation of

the school of Hales and Chillingworth, of Henry More and Cudworth.

Before the period closes we have a foretaste in L'Estrange of the literary craftsman of another age and type. His task came perilously near to hackwork, but he discharged it with something of the rollicking boldness, if with all the slipshod carelessness, of a generation to which, although older in years, he essentially belongs.

H. CRAIK.

FRANCIS BACON

[Francis Bacon, son of Queen Elizabeth's Lord Keeper, Sir Nicholas Bacon, and nephew of her Treasurer, Lord Burghley, was born on the 22d January 1561. In his twelfth year he was sent to Cambridge, in his sixteenth he was admitted to Gray's Inn, and went to complete his education by a three years' residence with Sir Amyas Paulet, the English Ambassador in France. He naturally looked to public life, having been saluted in his boyhood by the Queen as " her young Lord Keeper"; but his advancement, in spite of urgent solicitation on his part, was slow, probably owing to the jealousy or the distrust of his powerful relatives. His first employment of State was as Queen's Counsel in the trial of Essex in 1601, his conduct in which has been much discussed. It was an embarrassing position for him in consequence of his previous relations with that nobleman. Under James, at first, there was little improvement in his fortunes, but he became Solicitor-General in 1607, and his foot once on the ladder, he kept it there till he reached the top, being charged with the Great Seal in 1617. He was dismissed from this high office in 1621, upon impeachments which have since been the subject of prolonged and keen controversy, and spent the rest of his life in retirement. His literary and philosophic works were the occupation of his leisure, voluntary and enforced. The first edition of his Essays, numbering ten only, appeared in 1597 ; these were enlarged, and the number increased in succes-sive editions (1612, 1625) to fifty-eight. The Advancement of Learning was issued in 1605 ; the Novum Organum in 1620. The History of Henry VII. was his first work after his fall ; the New Atlantis was written about the same time ; the Sylva Sylvarum was his last occupation. He died on the 9th April 1626.]

Any attempt at analysing Bacon's style convinces us of the futility of trying to separate matter and manner, if by matter we understand more than the mere subject of discourse. The charm of Bacon's writings lies in his "wit," in the broad old sense of the word, in which it means intellect as well as expression. The sagacity of the underlying thought on which we rest when we apprehend the meaning of his words is as potent an element in our impression of delight as the aptness of the phrase and the ingenuity of the allusion. It is the style, as including both matter

and manner, that is the man. To read him, is to put ourselves in invigorating contact with an intellect of the utmost keenness and force, steadily centred but wide in its scope and alive at every point with a buoyant and intense vitality.

Taking style in the narrower sense of “expression,” but still as including both diction and method, we find that Bacon had more than one style. Essentially a man of calculation and contrivance, he adapted his style to his purposes. His Essays have always been, as he himself says they were in his own time, the “most current” of his works. In substance the very quintessence of the worldly wisdom of his age, they have been most influential in the history of English prose. They have fixed the form of one of our chief kinds of prose writing—the essay. The Essays are sometimes spoken of as if they were models of good prose for all purposes; but this, as Bacon himself would have been the first to discern, is an indiscriminate praise that is virtually a detraction, inasmuch as it obscures the adaptation of the expression to the design. We miss in them the luminous sequence that we find in his exposition of more definite themes, the close coherence that made Ben Jonson say of his speeches that “his hearers could not cough or look aside without loss.” The Essays are, as he said himself, “dispersed meditations,” detached thoughts on such topics as Studies, Friendship, Ambition, Cunning, Praise, written down as they occurred, without any other connection than their general relevance to the topic. In the original edition of ten, this was indicated by prefixing to each separate “meditation” the now obsolete mark ¶. Mr. Arber’s careful “Harmony” of the various editions printed in parallel columns shows how he added to these reflections and illustrated them here and there by happy anecdotes and quotations at each revision. It was a natural incident of this “dispersed” way of writing that the expression of each thought should have a felicity of its own, independent of its relation to the others; and the author did not mar this by trying to force them into a sequence such as they might have had if one had risen out of another in a continuous stretch of thought. If we forget this, we are apt to do another injustice to Bacon, and to suspect him of a wilful and artful contravention of one of his own precepts. In a passage which we quote from the Advancement of Learning, he deprecates “hunting more after words than matter,” and after “the choiceness of the phrase” and “the illustration of the work with tropes and figures,” rather than

"weight of matter, width of subject, and depth of judgment."

The words and the matter are certainly well matched in Bacon's

Essays, but, as we can well suppose that it was the casual occur-

rence of a happy phrase or an apposite figure that moved him to

take out his tablets and set his thoughts down, so it is really the

choiceness of phrase and figure that has kept his wisdom from

perishing. In weight of matter, and depth of judgment, Burghley's

"Precepts to his Son" are at least equal to Bacon's "Counsels,

Civil and Moral"; without the saving grace of wit in expression,

Bacon's wisdom might have sunk like his kinsman's. And yet

he could easily have defended himself from a charge of not

"recking his own rede" against "hunting more after words than

matter." These Essays are really not so much set compositions

as collections of thoughts that have happily shaped themselves in

epigrammatic and ornate phrase, that have flowered, as it were,

spontaneously. Their diction has much in common with Lyly's

Euphuism, which was the literary fashion of his youth, only there

is more body in Bacon's epigrams, and his similitudes, while often

equally far-fetched, are not so unscrupulously fantastic and flimsy.

Bacon is distinguished on the one hand from Lyly by his incom-

parably greater weight of matter and depth of judgment, just as

he is distinguished on the other from Burghley by his being

an artist in choiceness of phrase. How dearly Bacon loved a

brilliant phrase or an ingenious conceit, in spite of his protest

against hunting after words, is seen by the care with which he

gathered and stored in his Essays any flower of speech that

incidentally came to him. In reading his State papers and private

letters we often encounter felicities which have been thus carefully

garncred.

But it would be a mistake to suppose that the style of the

Essays is Bacon's only style. For the reasons we have indicated,

this is much more thickly ornamented, much more alive with

epigram and ingenious fancy, and much more inconsecutive than

when he wrote with a definite end in view. In his

Advancement

of Learning, where he maps out and describes the provinces of

knowledge, in his State papers, where he has a policy to recom-

mend, and in his pleadings, where he has a complicated case to

present for judgment, what principally strikes us is the compact

grouping of details and the luminous order of the whole. It is

when we read these works of his that we understand the full force

of Ben Jonson's famous eulogium. "He was full of gravity in

his speaking. His language, when he could spare or pass by a jest,

was nobly censorious. No man ever spoke more neatly, more

prestly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness

in what he uttered. No member of his speech but consisted of his

own graces. His hearers could not cough or look aside from him

without loss. He commanded when he spoke, and had his judges

angry and pleased at his devotion. No man had their affections

more in his power. The fear of every man that heard him was

lest he should make an end." A good way of appreciating the

different "styles" that his wonderful wit had at command for

different purposes is to compare his essay, "Of the True Great-

ness of Kingdoms and Estates," with the paper, "Of the True

Greatness of the Kingdom of Britain," which he presented to

King James at his accession.

"If his wit be not apt to distinguish or find differences," Bacon

says in the essay "Of Studies," "let him study the Schoolmen."

In his own set expositions he defines, divides, and subdivides

with all the formal precision of a Schoolman, but his strong, ever-

present sense of the necessity of keeping to a point saves him from

becoming tedious. Thus his influence on expository prose told in

the direction of what Jonson calls neatness and "prestess," and

against superfluous finicking and irrelevant disquisition. And

always anxious as he was to drive a clear impression home, his

prose is much less involved in structure than that of many of his con-

temporaries. He does not, like Hooker, pile clause on clause; he

shows a much sounder judgment of what a reader can take in

without confusion. He does not seem to have had Hooker's ear

for the music of long periods, which often betrayed the great

churchman into intricacy of syntax. Thus, on the whole, Bacon's

prose helped the tendency to avoid cumbrous and involved

structure, the tendency that was finally confirmed by Dryden.

William MINTO.

LETTER TO LORD BURGHLEY IN 1591

My Lord—With as much confidence as mine own honest and faithful devotion unto your service and your honourable correspondence unto me and my poor estate can breed in a man, do I commend myself unto your lordship. I wax now somewhat ancient ; one-and-thirty is a great deal of sand in the hour-glass. My health, I thank God, I find confirmed ; and I do not fear that action shall impair it, because I account my ordinary course of study and meditation to be more painful than most parts of action are. I ever bare a mind (in some middle place that I could discharge) to serve her majesty ; not as a man born under Sol, that loveth honour ; nor under Jupiter, that loveth business (for the contemplative planet carrieth me away wholly) ; but as a man born under an excellent sovereign, that deserveth the dedication of all men's abilities. Besides, I do not find in myself so much self-love, but that the greater parts of my thoughts are to deserve well (if I were able) of my friends, and namely of your lordship ; who being the Atlas of this commonwealth, the honour of my house, and the second founder of my poor estate, I am tied by all duties, both of a good patriot and of an unworthy kinsman, and of an obliged servant, to employ whatsoever I am to do your service. Again, the meanness of my estate doth somewhat move me ; for though I cannot accuse myself that I am either prodigal or slothful, yet my health is not to spend, nor my course to get. Lastly, I confess that I have as vast contemplative ends : as I have moderate civil ends : for I have taken all knowledge to be my province ; and if I could purge it of two sorts of rovers, whereof the one with frivolous disputations, confutations, and verbosities, the other with blind experiments and auricular traditions and impostures, hath committed so many spoils, I hope I should bring in industrious observations, grounded conclusions, and profitable inventions and discoveries ; the best state of that province. This, whether it be

curiosity, or vain glory, or nature, or (if one take it favourably)

philantbropia, is so fixed in my mind as it cannot be removed.

And I do easily see, that place of any reasonable countenance doth

bring commandment of more wits than of a man's own ; which is

the thing I greatly affect. And for your lordship, perhaps you

shall not find more strength and less encounter in any other. And

if your lordship shall find now, or at any time, that I do seek or

affect any place whereunto any that is nearer unto your lordship

shall be concurrent, say then that I am a most dishonest man.

And if your lordship will not carry me on, I will not do as Anaxa-

goras did, who reduced himself with contemplation unto voluntary

poverty : but this I will do ; I will sell the inheritance that I have,

and purchase some lease of quick revenue, or some office of gain

that shall be executed by deputy, and so give over all care of

service,and become some sorry book-maker, or a true pioneer in that

mine of truth, which (he said) lay so deep. This which I have writ

unto your lordship is rather thoughts than words, being set down

without all art, disguising, or reservation. Wherein I have done

honour both to your lordship's wisdom, in judging that that will

be best believed of your lordship which is truest, and to your

lordship's good nature, in retaining nothing from you. And even

so I wish your lordship all happiness, and to myself means and

occasion to be added to my faithful desire to do you service.

From my lodging at Gray's Inn.

OF STUDIES

STUDIES serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their

chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring ; for ornament,

is in discourse ; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition

of business. For expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of

particulars, one by one ; but the general counsels, and the plots

and marshalling of affairs come best from those that are learned.

To spend too much time in studies is sloth ; to use them too much

for ornament is affectation ; to make judgment wholly by their

rules is the humour of a scholar. They perfect nature, and are

perfected by experience : for natural abilities are like natural plants

that need proyning by study ; and studies themselves do give forth

directions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experi-

ence. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and

wise men use them ; for they teach not their own use ; but that is

a wisdom without them, and above them, won by observation.

Read not to contradict and confute ; nor to believe and take for

granted ; nor to find talk and discourse ; but to weigh and consider.

Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some

few to be chewed and digested ; that is, some books are to be read

only in parts ; others to be read, but not curiously ; and some few

to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books

also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others ;

but that would be only in the less important arguments, and the

meaner sort of books ; else distilled books are like common distilled

waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full man ; conference a

ready man ; and writing an exact man. And therefore, if a man

write little, he had need have a great memory ; if he confer little,

he had need have a present wit ; and if he read little, he had need

have much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not. Histories

make men wise ; poets, witty ; the mathematics, subtile ; natural

philosophy, deep ; moral, grave ; logic and rhetoric, able to contend.

Abeunt studia in mores. [The studies pass into the manners.]

Nay there is no stand or impediment in the wit, but may be

wrought out by fit studies : like as diseases of the body may have

appropriate exercises. Bowling is good for the stone and reins ;

shooting for the lungs and breast ; gentle walking for the stomach ;

riding for the head ; and the like. So if a man's wit be wandering,

let him study the mathematics ; for in demonstrations, if his wit

be called away never so little, he must begin again. If his wit be

not apt to distinguish or find differences, let him study the school-

men ; for they are cyminsectores [splitters of hairs]. If he be not

apt to beat over matters, and to call up one thing to prove and

illustrate another, let him study the lawyer's cases. So every defect

of the mind may have a special receipt.

(From the Essays.)

OF MARRIAGE AND SINGLE LIFE

HE that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune ;

for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or

mischief. Certainly the best works, and of greatest merit for the

public, have proceeded from the unmarried or childless men ;

which both in affection and means have married and endowed the public.

Yet it were great reason that those that have children should have greatest care of future times ; unto which they know they must transmit their dearest pledges.

Some there are, who though they lead a single life, yet their thoughts do end with themselves, and account future times impertinences.

Nay, there are some other that account wife and children but as bills of charges.

Nay more, there are some foolish rich covetous men that take a pride in having no children, because they may be thought so much the richer.

For perhaps they have heard some talk, such an one is a great rich man, and another except to it, yea, but he hath a great charge of children;

as if it were an abatement to his riches.

But the most ordinary cause of a single life is liberty, especially in certain self-pleasing and humorous minds, which are so sensible of every restraint, as they will go near to think their girdles and garters to be bonds and shackles.

Unmarried men are best friends, best masters, best servants ; but not always best subjects ; for they are light to run away ; and almost all fugitives are of that condition.

A single life doth well with churchmen ; for charity will hardly water the ground where it must first fill a pool.

It is indifferent for judges and magistrates ; for if they be facile and corrupt, you shall have a servant five times worse than a wife.

For soldiers, I find the generals commonly in their hortatives put men in mind of their wives and children ; and I think the despising of marriage amongst the Turks maketh the vulgar soldier more base.

Certainly wife and children are a kind of discipline of humanity ; and single men, though they may be many times more charitable, because their means are less exhaust, yet, on the other side, they are more cruel and hard-hearted (good to make severe inquisitors), because their tenderness is not so oft called upon.

Grave natures, led by custom, and therefore constant, are commonly loving husbands ; as was said of Ulysses, vetulam suam pratulit immortalitati [he preferred his old wife to immortality].

Chaste women are often proud and froward, as presuming upon the merit of their chastity.

It is one of the best bonds both of chastity and obedience in the wife, if she think her husband wise ; which she will never do if she find him jealous.

Wives are young men's mistresses ; companions for middle age; and old men's nurses.

So as a man may have a quarrel to marry when he will.

But yet he was reputed one of the wise men that made answer to the question, when a man should marry?

A young man not yet, an elder man not at all.

elder man not at all. It is often seen that bad husbands have very

good wives ; whether it be that it raiseth the price of their hus-

band's kindness when it comes ; or that the wives take a pride in

their patience. But this never fails, if the bad husbands were of

their own choosing against their friends' consent ; for then they

will be sure to make good their own folly.

(From the Same.)

OF VAINGLORY

IT was prettily devised of Æsop ; the fly sat upon the axle-tree of

the chariot wheel, and said, What a dust do I raise! So are

there some vain persons, that whatsoever goeth alone or moveth

upon greater means, if they have never so little hand in it, they

think it is they that carry it. They that are glorious must needs

be factious ; for all bravery stands upon comparisons. They

must needs be violent, to make good their own vaunts. Neither

can they be secret, and therefore not effectual ; but according to

the French proverb, Beaucoup de bruit, peu de fruit; much bruit,

little fruit. Yet certainly there is use of this quality in civil

affairs. Where there is an opinion and fame to be created either

of virtue or greatness, these men are good trumpeters. Again, as

Titus Livius noteth in the case of Antiochus and the Ætolians,

There are sometimes great effects of cross lies; as if a man that

negociates between two princes, to draw them to join in a war

against the third, doth extol the forces of either of them above

measure, the one to the other: and sometimes he that deals

between man and man, raiseth his own credit with both, by pre-

tending greater interest than he hath in either. And in these and

the like kinds, it often falls out that somewhat is produced of

nothing ; for lies are sufficient to breed opinion, and opinion

brings on substance. In militar commanders and soldiers, vain-

glory is an essential point ; for as iron sharpens iron, so by glory

one courage sharpeneth another. In cases of great enterprise

upon charge and adventure, a composition of glorious natures

doth put life into business ; and those that are of solid and sober

natures have more of the ballast than of the sail. In fame of

learning, the flight will be slow without some feathers of ostenta-

tion. Qui de contemnendâ gloriâ libros scribunt, nomen suum

inscribunt. [They that write books on the worthlessness of glory,

VOL. II

take care to put their names on the title page.] Socrates, Aristotle, Galen, were men full of ostentation. Certainly vain-glory helpeth to perpetuate a man's memory; and virtue was never so beholding to human nature, as it received his due at the second hand. Neither had the fame of Cicero, Seneca, Plinius Secundus, borne her age so well, if it had not been joined with some vanity in themselves; like unto varnish, that makes ceilings not only shine but last. But all this while, when I speak of vain-glory, I mean not of that property that Tacitus doth attribute to Mucianus; Omnium, quæ dixerat feceratque, arte quâdam ostentator [a man that had a kind of art of setting forth to advantage all that he had said or done]: for that proceeds not of vanity, but of natural magnanimity and discretion; and in some persons is not only comely, but gracious. For excusations, cessions, modesty itself well governed, are but arts of ostentation. And amongst those arts there is none better than that which Plinius Secundus speaketh of, which is to be liberal of praise and commendation to others, in that wherein a man's self hath any perfection. For saith Pliny very wittily, In commending another you do yourself right; for he that you commend is either superior to you in that you commend, or inferior. If he be inferior, if he be to be commended, you much more; if he be superior, if he be not to be commended, you much less. Glorious men are the scorn of wise men, the admiration of fools, the idols of parasites, and the slaves of their own vaunts.

(From the Same.)

OF BUILDING

HOUSES are built to live in, and not to look on; therefore let use be preferred before uniformity, except where both may be had. Leave the goodly fabrics of houses, for beauty only, to the enchanted palaces of the poets; who build them with small cost. He that builds a fair house upon an ill seat, committeth himself to prison. Neither do I reckon it an ill seat only where the air is unwholesome; but likewise where the air is unequai; as you shall see many fine seats set upon a knap of ground, environed with higher hills round about it; whereby the heat of the sun is pent in, and the wind gathereth as in troughs; so as you shall have, and that suddenly, as great diversity of heat and cold as if you dwelt in several places. Neither is it ill air only that maketh

an ill seat, but ill ways, ill markets; and, if you will consult with Momus, ill neighbours. I speak not of many more; want of water; want of wood, shade, and shelter; want of fruitfulness, and mixture of grounds of several natures: want of prospect; want of level grounds; want of places at some near distance for sports of hunting, hawking, and races; too near the sea, too remote; having the commodity of navigable rivers, or the discommodity of their overflowing: too far off from great cities, which may hinder business, or too near them, which lurcheth all provisions, and maketh everything dear; where a man hath a great living laid together, and where he is scanted: all which, as it is impossible perhaps to find together, so it is good to know them, and think of them, that a man may take as many as he can; and if he have several dwellings, that they sort them so, that what he wanteth in the one he may find in the other. Lucullus answered Pompey well; who, when he saw his stately galleries, and rooms so large and lightsome, in one of his houses, said, Surely an excellent place for summer, but how do you do in winter? Lucullus answered, Why, do you not think me as wise as some fowl are, that ever change their abode towards the winter?

To pass from the seat to the house itself; we will do as Cicero doth in the orator's art: who writes books De Oratore, and a book he entitles Orator, whereof the former delivers the precepts of the art, and the latter the perfection. We will therefore describe a princely palace, making a brief model thereof. For it is strange to see; now in Europe, such huge buildings as the Vatican and Escurial and some others be, and yet scarce a very fair room in them.

First therefore, I say you cannot have a perfect palace, except you have two several sides; a side for the banquet, as is spoken of in the book of Hester, and a side for the household; the one for feasts and triumphs, and the other for dwelling. I understand both these sides to be not only returns, but parts of the front; and to be uniform without, though severally partitioned within; and to be on both sides of a great and stately tower in the midst of the front, that as it were, joineth them together on either hand. I would have on the side of the banquet, in front, one only goodly room above stairs, of some forty foot high; and under it a room for a dressing or preparing place at times of triumphs. On the other side, which is the household side, I wish it divided at the first into a hall and a chapel (with a partition between), both of

good state and bigness; and those not to go all the length, but to have at the further end a winter and a summer parlour, both fair. And under these rooms, a fair and large cellar sunk under ground: and likewise some privy kitchens, with butteries and pantries, and the like. As for the tower, I would have it two stories, of eighteen foot high a piece, above the two wings; and a goodly leads upon the top, railed with statua's interposed; and the same tower to be divided into rooms, as shall be thought fit. The stairs likewise to the upper rooms, let them be upon a fair open newel, and finely railed in with images of wood, cast into a brass colour; and a very fair landing-place at the top. But this to be, if you do not point any of the lower rooms for a dining place of servants. For otherwise you shall have the servants' dinner after your own: for the steam of it will come up as in a tunnel. And so much for the front. Only I understand the height of the first stairs to be sixteen foot: which is the height of the lower room.

Beyond this front is there to be a fair court, but three sides of it of a far lower building than the front. And in all the four corners of that court fair stair-cases, cast into turrets, on the outside, and not within the row of buildings themselves. But those towers are not to be of the height of the front, but rather proportionable to the lower building. Let the court not be paved, for that striketh up a great heat in summer, and much cold in winter. But only some side alleys, with a cross, and the quarters to graze, being kept shorn, but not too near shorn. The row of galleries let there be all stately galleries: in which it, placed at equal distance; and fine coloured windows of several works. On the household side, chambers of presence and ordinary entertainments, with some bed-chambers; and let all three sides be a double house, without thorough lights on the sides, that you may have rooms from the sun, both for forenoon and afternoon. Cast it also, that you may have rooms both for summer and winter: shady for summer, and warm for winter. You shall have sometimes fair houses so full of glass that one cannot tell where to be come to be out of the sun or cold. For inbowed windows, I hold them of good use (in cities, indeed, upright do better, in respect of the uniformity towards the street); for they be pretty retiring places for conference; and besides they keep both the wind and sun off; for that which would strike almost through the

room doth scarce pass the window. But let them be but few, four in the court, on the sides only.

Beyond this court, let there be an inward court, of the same square and height; which is to be environed with the garden on all sides; and in the inside, cloistered on all sides, upon decent and beautiful arches, as high as the first story. On the under story, towards the garden, let it be turned to a grotta, or place of shade, or estivation. And only have opening and windows towards the garden; and be level upon the floor, no whit sunken under ground, to avoid all dampishness. And let there be a fountain or some fair work of statua's in the midst of this court; and to be paved as the other court was. These buildings to be for privy lodgings on both sides, and the end for privy galleries. Whereof you must foresee that one of them be for an infirmary, if the prince or any special person should be sick, with chambers, bed-chamber, antecamera, and recamera, joining to it. This upon the second story. Upon the ground story, a fair gallery, open, upon pillars; and upon the third story likewise, an open gallery, upon pillars, to take the prospect and freshness of the garden.

At both corners of the further side, by way of return, let there be two delicate or rich cabinets, daintily paved, richly hanged, glazed with crystalline glass, and a rich cupola in the midst; and all other elegancy that may be thought upon. In the upper gallery too, I wish that there may be, if the place will yield it, some fountains running in divers places from the wall, with some fine avoidances. And thus much for the model of the palace; save that you must have, before you come to the front, three courts. A green court plain, with a wall about it; a second court of the same, but more garnished, with little turrets, or rather embellishments, upon the wall; and a third court, to make a square with the front, but not to be built, nor yet enclosed with a naked wall, but enclosed with tarrasses, leaded aloft, and fairly garnished, on the three sides; and cloistered on the inside, with pillars, and not with arches below. As for offices, let them stand at distance, with some low galleries, to pass from them to the palace itself.

(From the Same.)

22

ENGLISH PROSE

ON THE VANITY OF WORDS WITHOUT MATTER

THERE be therefore chiefly three vanities in studies, whereby learning hath been most traduced. For those things we do esteem vain, which are either false or frivolous, those which either have no truth or no use : and those persons we esteem vain, which are either credulous or curious ; and curiosity is either in matter or words : so that in reason as well as in experience, there fall out to be these three distempers (as I may term them) of learning ; the first, fantastical learning ; the second, contentious learning ; and the last, delicate learning ; vain imaginations, vain altercations, and vain affectations ; and with the last I will begin. Martin Luther, conducted (no doubt) by an higher Providence, but in discourse of reason, finding what a province he had undertaken against the Bishop of Rome and the degenerate traditions of the church, and finding his own solitude, being no ways aided by the opinions of his own time, was enforced to awake all antiquity, and to call former times to his succours to make a party against the present time ; so that the ancient authors, both in divinity and in humanity, which had long slept in libraries, began generally to be read and revolved. This by consequence did draw on a necessity of a more exquisite travail in the languages original wherein those authors did write, for the better understanding of those authors and the better advantage of pressing and applying their words. And thereof grew again a delight in their manner of style and phrase, and an admiration of that kind of writing ; which was much furthered and precipitated by the enmity and opposition that the propounders of those (primitive but seeming new) opinions had against the schoolmen ; who were generally of the contrary part, and whose writings were altogether in a differing style and form ; taking liberty to coin and frame new terms of art to express their own sense and to avoid circuit of speech, without regard to the pureness, pleasantness, and (as I may call it) lawfulness of the phrase or word. And again, because the great labour then was with the people (of whom the Pharisees were wont to say, Execrabilis ista turba, quæ non novit legem) [the wretched crowd that has not known the law], for the winning and persuading of them, there grew of necessity in chief price and request eloquence and variety of discourse, as the fittest and forciablest access into the capacity of the vulgar sort. So that these four causes con-

curring, the admiration of ancient authors, the hate of the schoolmen, the exact study of languages, and the efficacy of preaching,

did bring in an affectionate study of eloquence and copie of speech,

which then began to flourish. This grew speedily to an excess ;

for men began to hunt more after words than matter ; and more

after the choiceness of the phrase, and the round and clean com-

position of the sentence, and the sweet falling of the clauses, and

the varying and illustration of their works with tropes and figures,

than after the weight of matter, worth of subject, soundness of

argument, life of invention, or depth of judgment. Then grew the

flowing and watery vein of Osorius, the Portugal bishop, to be in

price. Then did Sturmius spend such infinite and curious pains

upon Cicero the orator and Hermogenes the rhetorician, besides

his own books of periods and imitation and the like. Then did

Car of Cambridge, and Ascham, with their lectures and writings,

almost deify Cicero and Demosthenes, and allure all young men

that were studious unto that delicate and polished kind of learn-

ing. Then did Erasmus take occasion to make the scoffing echo;

Decem annos consumpsi in legendo Cicerone [I have spent ten

years in reading Cicero] : and the echo answered, in Greek, one,

Asine. Then grew the learning of the schoolmen to be utterly

despised as barbarous. In sum, the whole inclination and bent

of those times was rather towards copie than weight.

Here therefore is the first distemper of learning, when men

study words and not matter : whereof, though I have represented

an example of late times, yet it hath been and will be secundum

majus et minus in all time. And how is it possible but this should

have an operation to discredit learning, even with vulgar capacities,

when they see learned men's works like the first letter of a patent

or limned book ; which though it hath large flourishes, yet it is

but a letter? It seems to me that Pygmalion's frenzy is a good

emblem or portraiture of this vanity: for words are but the images

of matter ; and except they have life of reason and invention, to

fall in love with them is all one as to fall in love with a picture.

But yet, notwithstanding, it is a thing not hastily to be con-

demned, to clothe and adorn the obscurity even of philosophy

itself with sensible and plausible elocution. For hereof we have

great examples in Xenophon, Cicero, Seneca, Plutarch, and of

Plato also in some degree ; and hereof likewise there is great use;

for surely to the severe inquisition of truth, and the deep progress

into philosophy, it is some hindrance ; because it is too early

satisfactory to the mind of man, and quencheth the desire of further search, before we come to a just period ; but then if a man be to have any use of such knowledge in civil occasions, of conference, counsel, persuasion, discourse, or the like ; then shall he find it prepared to his hands in those authors which write in that manner. But the excess of this is so justly contemptible, that as Hercules, when he saw the image of Adonis, Venus's minion, in a temple, said in disdain, Nil sacri es [you are no divinity] ; so there is none of Hercules's followers in learning, that is, the more severe and laborious sort of inquirers into truth, but will despise those delicacies and affectations, as indeed capable of no divineness. And thus much of the first disease or distemper of learning.

(From The Advancement of Learning.)

OF THE TRUE GREATNESS OF A STATE

AND therefore we may conclude, that as largeness of territory, severed from military virtue, is but a burden ; so, that treasures and riches severed from the same is but a prey. It resteth therefore to make a reduction of this error also unto a truth by distinction and limitation, which will be in this manner :

Treasure and moneys do then add true greatness and strength to a state, when they are accompanied with these three conditions :

First, the same condition which hath been annexed to largeness of territory, that is, that they be joined with martial prowess and valour.

Secondly, That treasure doth then advance greatness, when it is rather in mediocrity than in great abundance. And again better, when some part of the state is poor, than when all parts of it are rich.

And lastly, That treasure in a state is more or less serviceable, as the hands are in which the wealth chiefly resteth.

For the first of these, it is a thing that cannot be denied, that in equality of valour the better purse is an advantage. For like as in wrestling between man and man, if there be a great overmatch in strength, it is to little purpose though one have the better breath ; but, if the strength be near equal, then he that is short-winded will, if the wager consist of many falls, in the end have the worst ; so it is in the wars, if it be a match between a valiant

people and a cowardly, the advantage of treasure will not serve;

but if they be near in valour, then the better moneyed state will be

the better able to continue the war, and so in the end to prevail.

But if any man think that money can make those provisions at the

first encounters, that no difference of valour can countervail, let

him look back but into those examples which have been brought,

and he must confess that all those furnitures whatsoever are

but shows and mummeries, and cannot shroud fear against

resolution. For there shall he find companies armed with armour

of proof taken out of the stately armouries of kings who spared no

cost, overthrown by men armed by private bargain and chance as

they could get it : there shall he find armies appointed with horses

bred of purpose, and in choice races, chariots of war, elephants,

and the like terrors, mastered by armies meanly appointed. So of

towns strongly fortified, basely yielded, and the like ; all being but

sheep in a lion's skin, where valour faileth.

For the second point, that competency of treasure is better than

surfeit, is a matter of common place or ordinary discourse ; in

regard that excess of riches, neither in public nor private, ever hath

any good effects, but maketh men either slothful and effeminate,

and so no enterprisers ; or insolent and arrogant, and so over-

great embracers ; but most generally cowardly and fearful to lose,

according to the adage, " Timidus Plutus"; so as this needeth no

farther speech. But a part of that assertion requireth a more deep

consideration, being a matter not so familiar, but yet most

assuredly true. For it is necessary in a state that shall grow and

enlarge, that there be that composition which the poet speaks of,

" Multis utile bellum " : an ill condition of a state, no question, if

it be meant of a civil war, as it was spoken ; but a condition proper to

a state that shall increase, if it be taken of a foreign war. For except

there be a spur in the state, that shall excite and prick them on to

wars, they will but keep their own, and seek no farther. And in

all experience and stories you shall find but three things that pre-

pare and dispose an estate to war : the ambition of governors, a

state of soldiers professed, and the hard means to live of many

subjects. Whereof the last is the most forcible and the most con-

stant. And this is the true reason of that event which we observed

and rehearsed before, that most of the great kingdoms of the world

have sprung out of hardiness and scarceness of means, as the

strongest herbs out of the barrenest soils.

For the third point, concerning the placing and distributing of

treasure in a state, the position is simple; that then treasure is greatest strength to a state, when it is so disposed, as it is readiest and easiest to come by for public service and use: which one position doth infer three conclusions.

First, That there be quantity sufficient of treasure as well in the treasury of the crown or state, as in the purse of the private subject.

Secondly, That the wealth of the subject be rather in many hands than in few.

And thirdly, That it be in those hands, where there is likest to be the greatest sparing, and increase, and not in those hands, wherein there useth to be greatest expense and consumption.

For it is not the abundance of treasure in the subjects' hands that can make sudden supply of the want of a state; because reason tells us, and experience both, that private persons have least will to contribute when they have most cause; for when there is noise or expectation of wars, then is always the deadest time for moneys, in regard every man restraineth and holdeth fast his means for his own comfort and succour, according as Solomon saith, "The riches of a man are as a stronghold in his own imagination": and therefore we see by infinite examples, and none more memorable than that of Constantinus the last Emperor of the Greeks, and the citizens of Constantinople, that subjects do often choose rather to be frugal dispensers for their enemies, than liberal lenders to their prince.

Again, wheresoever the wealth of the subject is engrossed into few hands, it is not possible it should be so respondent and yielding to payments and contributions for the public, both because the true estimation or assessment of great wealth is more obscure and uncertain; and because the burden seemeth lighter when the charge lieth upon many hands; and farther, because the same greatness of wealth is for the most part not collected and obtained without sucking it from many, according to the received similitude of the spleen, which never swelleth but when the rest of the body pineth and abateth.

And lastly, it cannot be that any wealth should leave a second overplus for the public that doth not first leave an overplus to the private stock of him that gathers it; and therefore nothing is more certain than that those states are least able to aid and defray great charge for wars, or other public disbursements, whose wealth resteth chiefly in the hands of the nobility and gentlemen.

For what by reason of their magnificence and waste in expense, and what by reason of their desire to advance

and make great their own families, and again upon the coincidence

of the former reason, because they are always the fewest ; small is

the help, as to payments or charge, that can be levied or expected

from them towards the occasions of a state. Contrary it is of such

states whose wealth resteth in the hands of merchants, burghers,

tradesmen, freeholders, farmers in the country, and the like,

whereof we have a most evident and present example before our

eyes, in our neighbours of the Low Countries, who could never

have endured and continued so inestimable and insupportable

charge, either by their natural frugality or by their mechanical

industry, were it not also that there was a concurrence in them of

this last reason, which is, that their wealth was dispersed in many

hands, and not engrossed into few ; and those hands were not

much of the nobility, but most and generally of inferior conditions.

(From Of the True Greatness of Britain.)

THE CHARACTER OF HENRY VII

HE was of an high mind, and loved his own will and his own way ;

as one that reverced himself and would reign indeed. Had he

been a private man he would have been termed proud : but in a

wise Prince, it was but keeping of distance ; which indeed he did

towards all ; not admitting any near or full approach either to his

power or to his secrets. For he was governed by none. His

Queen (notwithstanding she had presented him with divers children;

and with a crown also, though he would not acknowledge it) could

do nothing with him. His mother he reverenced much, heard

little. For any person agreeable to him for society (such as was

Hastings to King Edward the fourth, or Charles Brandon after to

King Henry the Eighth) he had none ; except we should account

for such persons Foxe and Bray and Empson, because they were

so much with him. But it was but as the instrument is much

with the workman. He had nothing in him of vain-glory, but yet

kept state and majesty to the height ; being sensible that majesty

maketh the people bow, but vain-glory boweth to them.

To his confederates abroad he was constant and just ; but not

open. But rather such was his inquiry and such his closeness, as

they stood in the light towards him, and he stood in the dark to

them ; yet without strangeness, but with a semblance of mutual

communication of affairs. As for little envies or emulations upon

foreign princes (which are frequent with many kings,) he had never any ; but went substantially to his own business. Certain it is, that though his reputation was great at home, yet it was greater abroad. For foreigners that could not see the passage of affairs, but made their judgments upon the issues of them, noted that he was ever in strife and ever aloft. It grew also from the airs which the princes and states abroad received from their ambassadors and agents here ; which were attending the court in great number ; whom he did not only content with courtesy, reward, and privateness ; but (upon such conferences as passed with them) put them in admiration to find his universal insight into the affairs of the world ; which though he did suck chiefly from themselves, yet that which he had gathered from them all seemed admirable to every one. So that they did write ever to their superiors in high terms concerning his wisdom and art of rule. Nay, when they were returned, they did commonly maintain intelligence with him ; such a dexterity he had to impropriate to himself all foreign instruments.

He was careful and liberal to obtain good intelligence from all parts abroad ; wherein he did not only use his interest in the liegers here, and his pensioners which he had both in the court of Rome and other the courts of Christendom, but the industry and vigilancy of his own ambassadors in foreign parts. For which purpose his instructions were ever extreme curious and articulate ; and in* them more articles touching inquisition than touching negotiation : requiring likewise from his ambassadors an answer, in particular distinct articles, respectively to his questions.

As for his secret spials which he did employ both at home and abroad, by them to discover what practices and conspiracies were against him ; surely his case required it ; he had such moles perpetually working and casting to undermine him. Neither can it be reprehended ; for if spials be lawful against lawful enemies, much more against conspirators and traitors. But indeed to give them credence by oaths or curses, that cannot be well maintained ; for those are too holy vestments for a disguise. Yet surely there was this further good in his employing of these flies and familiars : that as the use of them was cause that many conspiracies were revealed, so the fame and suspicion of them kept (no doubt) many conspiracies from being attempted.

Towards his Queen he was nothing uxorious ; nor scarce indulgent ; but companionable and respective, and without jealousy.

Towards his children he was full of paternal affection, careful of

their education, aspiring to their high advancement, regular to see

that they should not want of any due honour and respect ; but not

greatly willing to cast any popular lustre upon them.

To his counsel he did refer much, and sat oft in person ;

knowing it to be the way to assist his power and inform his

judgment ; in which respect also he was fairly patient of liberty

both of advice and of vote, till himself were declared.

He kept a strait hand on his nobility, and chose rather to

advance clergymen and lawyers, which were more obsequious to

him, but had less interest in the people ; which made for his

absoluteness, but not for his safety. Insomuch as I am persuaded

it was one of the causes of his troublesome reign. For that his

nobles, though they were loyal and obedient, yet did not co-operate

with him, but let every man go his own way. He was not afraid

of an able man as Lewis the Eleventh was. But contrariwise he

was served by the ablest men that then were to be found ; without

which his affairs could not have prospered as they did. For war,

Bedford, Oxford, Surrey, Dawbeny, Brooke, Poynings.

For other affairs, Morton, Foxe, Bray, the Prior of Lanthony, Warham,

Urswick, Hussey, Frowick, and others. Neither did he care how

cunning they were that he did employ : for he thought himself to

have the master-reach. And as he chose well, so he held them

up well. For it is a strange thing, that though he were, a dark

prince, and infinitely suspicious, and his times full of secret con-

spiracies and troubles ; yet in twenty-four years reign he never put

down or discomposed counsellor or near servant, save only Stanley

the Lord Chamberlain. As for the disposition of his subjects in

general towards him, it stood thus with him: that of the three

affections which naturally tie the hearts of the subjects to their

sovereign,—love, fear and reverence,—he had the last in height ;

the second in good measure ; and so little of the first, as he was

beholding to the other two.

He was a prince, sad, serious, and full of thoughts and secret

observations ; and full of notes and memorials of his own hand,

especially touching persons ; as whom to employ, whom to reward,

whom to inquire of, whom to beware of, what were the dependen-

cies, what were the factions, and the like ; keeping (as it were) a

journal of his thoughts. There is to this day a merry tale : that

his monkey (set on as it was thought by one of his chamber) tore

his principal note-book all to pieces, when by chance it lay forth ;

30

ENGLISH PROSE

whereat the court, which liked not those pensive accounts was

almost tickled with sport.

(From the History of Henry VII.)

THE DUTIES OF JUDGES OF ASSIZE

THE SPEECH WHICH WAS USED BY THE LORD KEEPER OF THE

GREAT SEAL IN THE STAR CHAMBER, BEFORE THE SUMMER

CIRCUITS, THE KING BEING THEN IN SCOTLAND, 1617.

The King by his perfect declaration published in this place

concerning judges and justices, hath made the speech of his

Chancellor, accustomed before the Circuits, rather of ceremony

than of use. For, as in his book to his son he hath set forth a

true character and platform of a king, so in this his speech 'he

hath done the like of a judge and justice ; which showeth that

as his majesty is excellently able to govern in chief, so he is

likewise well seen and skilful in the inferior offices and stages of

justice and government ; which is a thing very rare in kings.

Yet nevertheless somewhat must be said, to fulfil an old

observance ; but yet upon the king's grounds, and very briefly :

for as Solomon saith in another case, In these things who is he

that can come after the king?

First, you that are the Judges of Circuits are as it were the

planets of the kingdom (I do you no dishonour in giving you

that name), and no doubt you have a great stroke in the frame of

this government, as the other have in the great frame of the

world. Do therefore as they do ; move always and be carried

with the motion of your first mover, which is your sovereign. A

popular judge is a deformed thing ; and plaudites are fitter for

players than for magistrates. Do good to the people, love them

and give them justice. But let it be, as the Psalm saith, nihil

inde expectantes ; looking for nothing, neither praise nor profit.

Yet my meaning is not, when I wish you to take heed of

popularity, that you should be imperious and strange to the

gentlemen of the country. You are above them in power, but

your rank is not much unequal ; and learn this, that power is ever

of greatest strength when it is civilly carried.

Secondly, You must remember, that besides your ordinary

administration of justice, you do carry the two glasses or mirrors

of the state ; for it is your duty in these your visitations to repre-

sent to the people the graces and care of the king; and again,

upon your return, to present to the king the distastes and griefs

of the people.

Mark what the king says in his book: Procure reverence to

the king and the law; inform my people truly of me (which we

know is hard to do according to the excellency of his merit, but

yet endeavour it), how zealous I am for religion; how I desire

law may be maintained and flourish; that every court should have

his jurisdiction; that every subject should submit himself to the

law. And of this you have had of late no small occasion of

notice and remembrance, by the great and strait charge that the

king hath given me, as keeper of his seal, for the governing of

the Chancery without tumour or excess.

Again, e re nata, you at this present ought to make the people

know and consider the king’s blessed care and providence in

governing this realm in his absence; so that sitting at the helm

of another kingdom, not without great affairs and business, yet he

governs all things here by his letters and directions, as punctually

and perfectly as if he were present.

I assure you, my Lords of the Council and I do much admire

the extension and latitude of his care in all things.

In the High Commission he did conceive a sinew of govern-

ment was a little shrunk; he recommended the care of it.

He hath called for the accounts of the last circuit from the

judges to be transmitted unto him in Scotland.

Touching the infestation of pirates, he hath been careful, and

is, and hath put things in way.

All things that concern the reformation or the plantation of

Ireland, he hath given in them punctual and resolute directions.

All this in absence.

I give but a few instances of a public nature; the secrets of

counsel I may not enter into; though his dispatches into France,

Spain, and the Low Countries, now in his absence, are also

notorious as to the outward sending. So that I must conclude

that his majesty wants but more kingdoms, for I see he could

suffice to all.

As for the other glass I told you of, of representing to the

king the griefs of his people, without doubt it is properly your

part; for the king ought to be informed of anything amiss in the

state of his countries from the observations and relations of the

judges (that indeed know the pulse of the country) rather than

from discourse. But for this glass (thanks be to God), I do hear

from you all that there never was greater peace, obedience, and

contentment in the country; though the best governments be

always like the fairest crystals, wherein every little icicle or grain

is seen, which in a fouler stone is never perceived.

Now to some particulars, and not many. Of all other things

I must begin as the king begins; that is, with the cause of

religion; and especially the hollow church-papist. St. Austin

hath a good comparison of such men, affirming that they are like

the roots of nettles, which themselves sting not, but yet they bear

all the stinging leaves. Let me know of such roots, and I will

root them out of the country.

Next, for the matter of religion. In the principal place, I

recommend both to you and to the justices the countenancing of

godly and zealous preachers. I mean, not sectaries or novellists,

but those which are sound and conform; but yet pious and

reverend. For there will be a perpetual defection, except you

keep men in by preaching, as well as law doth by punishing;

and commonly spiritual diseases are not cured but by spiritual

remedies.

Next, let me commend unto you the repressing (as much as

may be) of faction in the countries, of which ensue infinite incon-

veniencies, and perturbations of ali good order, and crossing of all

good service in court or country, or wheresoever. Cicero, when

he was consul, had devised a fine remedy (a mild one, but an

effectual and apt one), for he saith, Eos qui otium perturbant,

reddam otiosos. Those that trouble others' quiet, I will give them

quiet: they shall have nothing to do, nor no authority shall be

put into their hands. If I may know from you of any who are

in the country that are heads or hands of faction, or men of

turbulent spirits, I shall give them Cicero's reward, as much as in

me is.

To conclude, study the king's book, and study yourselves

how you profit by it, and all shall be well. And you the Justices

of Peace in particular, let me say this to you. Never King of

this realm did so much honour as the king hath done you in

his speech, by being your immediate director and by sorting you

and your service with the service of ambassadors, and of his

nearest attendants. Nay more, it seems his majesty is willing to

do the state of Justice of Peace honour actively also; by bringing

in, with time, the like form of commission into the government of

Scotland, as that glorious king, Edward the third, did plant this commission here in this kingdom. And therefore you are not fit to be copies, except you be fair written, without blots or blurs, or anything unworthy your authority. And so I will trouble you no longer for this time.

THE POISONING OF SIR THOMAS OVERBURY

FIRST, therefore, for the simple narrative of the fact. Sir Thomas Overbury for a time was known to have had great interest and great friendship with my Lord of Somerset, both in his meaner fortunes and after ; insomuch as he was a kind of oracle of direction unto him ; and if you will believe his own vaunts (being of an insolent Thrasonical disposition), he took upon him, that the fortune, reputation, and understanding of this gentleman (who is well known to have had a better teacher) proceeded from his company and counsel.

And this friendship rested not only in conversation and business of court, but likewise in communication of secrets of estate. For my Lord of Somerset, at that time exercising (by his majesty's special favour and trust) the office of the Secretary provisionally, did not forbear to acquaint Overbury with the king's packets of dispatches from all parts, Spain, France, the Low Countries, etc. And this not by glimpses, or now and then rounding in the ear for a favour, but in a settled manner ; packets were sent, sometimes opened by my lord, sometimes unbroken unto Overbury, who perused them, copied, registered them, made tables of them as he thought good ; so that I will undertake the time was when Overbury knew more of the secrets of state than the Council-table did. Nay, they were grown to such an inwardness, as they made a play of all the world besides themselves ; so as they had ciphers and jargons for the king, the Queen, and all the great men ; things seldom used, but either by princes and their ambassadors and ministers, or by such as work and practice against, or at least upon princes.

But understand me (my lord) I shall not charge you this day with any disloyalty ; only I lay this for a foundation, that there was a great communication of secrets between you and Overbury, and that it had relation to matters of estate, and the greatest causes of this kingdom.

VOL. II

But (my lords) as it is a principle in nature, that the best

things are in their corruption the worst, and the sweetest wine

makes the sharpest vinegar; so it fell out with them, that this ex-

cess (as I may term it) of friendship ended in mortal hatred on

my Lord of Somerset's part.

For it fell out, some twelve months before Overbury's imprison-

ment in the Tower, that my Lord of Somerset was entered into an

unlawful love towards his unfortunate Lady, then Countess of

Essex: which went so far, as it was then secretly projected (chiefly

between my Lord Privy Seal and my Lord of Somerset) to effect

a nullity in the marriage with my Lord of Essex, and so to proceed

to a marriage with Somerset.

This marriage and purpose did Overbury mainly oppugn, under

pretence to do the true part of a friend (for that he counted her an

unworthy woman); but the truth was that Overbury, who (to

speak plainly) had little that was solid for religion or moral virtue,

but was a man possessed with ambition and vain-glory, was loth

to have any partners in the favour of my Lord of Somerset, and

especially not the house of the Howards, against whom he had

always professed hatred and opposition. So all was but miserable

bargains of ambition.

And (my lords) that this is no sinister construction, will well

appear unto you, when you shall hear that Overbury makes his

brags to my Lord of Somerset, that he had won him the love of

the lady by his letters and industry; so far was he from cases of

conscience in this matter. And certainly (my lords) howsoever

the tragical misery of that poor gentleman Overbury ought some-

what to obliterate his faults; yet because we are not now upon

point of civility, but to discover the face of truth to the face of

justice; and that it is material to the true understanding of the

state of this cause; Overbury was naught and corrupt, the ballads

must be amended for that point.

But to proceed; when Overbury saw that he was like to be

dispossessed of my lord here, whom he had possessed so long,

and by whose greatness he had promised himself to do wonders;

and being a man of an unbounded and impetuous spirit, he

began not only to dissuade, but to deter him from that love and

marriage; and finding him fixed, thought to try stronger remedies,

supposing that he had my lord's head under his girdle, in respect

of communication of secrets of estate (or, as he calls them himself

in his letters, secrets of all natures); and therefore dealt violently

with him to make him desist, with menaces of discovery of secrets,

and the like.

Hereupon grew two streams of hatred upon Overbury; the one

from the lady, in respect that he crossed her love and abused her

name, which are furies to women; the other of a deeper and more

mineral nature, from my Lord of Somerset himself; who was afraid

of Overbury's nature, and that if he did break from him and fly

out, he would mine into him and trouble his whole fortunes.

I might add a third stream from the Earl of Northampton's

ambition, who desires to be first in favour with my Lord of Somer-

set; and knowing Overbury's malice to himself and his house,

thought that man must be removed and cut off. So it was amongst

them resolved and decreed that Overbury must die.

Hereupon they had variety of devices. To send him beyond

sea, upon occasion of employment, that was too weak; and they

were so far from giving way to it, as they crossed it. There rested

but two ways, quarrel or assault, and poison. For that of assault,

after some proposition and attempt, they passed from it; it was a

thing too open and subject to more variety of chances. That of

poison likewise was a hazardous thing, and subject to many pre-

ventions and cautions, especially to such a jealous and working

brain as Overbury had, except he were first fast in their hand.

Therefore the way was first to get him into a trap, and lay him

up, and then they could not miss the mark. Therefore in execution

of this plot it was devised, that Overbury should be designed to

some honourable employment in foreign parts, and should under-

hand by the Lord of Somerset be incouraged to refuse it; and so

upon that contempt he should be laid prisoner in the Tower, and

then they would look he should be close enough, and death should

be his bail. Yet were they not at their end. For they considered

that if there was not a fit lieutenant of the Tower for their

purpose, and likewise a fit under-keeper of Overbury: first, they

should meet with many impediments in the giving and exhibiting

the poison: secondly they should be exposed to note and obser-

vation, that might discover them; and thirdly, Overbury in the

meantime might write clamorous and furious letters to other his

friends, and so all might be disappointed. And therefore the next

link of the chain was to displace the then lieutenant Waade, and to

place Helwisse, a principal abettor in the imprisonment: again,

to displace Cary, that was the under-keeper in Waade's time, and

to place Weston, who was the principal actor in the imprisonment:

and this was done in such a while, that it may appear to be done

as it were with one breath ; as there were but fifteen days between

the commitment of Overbury, the displacing of Waade, the placing

of Helwisse, the displacing of Cary the under-keeper, the placing

of Weston, and the first poison given two days after.

Then when they had this poor gentleman in the Tower close

prisoner, where he could not escape nor stir, where he could not

feed but by their hands, where he could not speak nor write but

through their trunks ; then was the time to execute the last act of

this tragedy.

Then must Franklin be purveyor of the poisons, and procure

five, six, seven several potions, to be sure to hit his complexion.

Then must Mris Turner be the say-mistress of the poisons to try

upon poor beasts what's present, and what works at distance of

time. Then must Weston be the tormentor, and chase him with

poison after poison ; poison in salts, poison in meats, poison in

sweetmeats, poison in medicines and vomits, until at last his body

was almost come, by use of poisons, to the state that Mithridates'

body was by the use of treacle and preservatives, that the force of

the poisons was blunted upon him ; Weston confessing, when he

was chid for not dispatching him, that he had given him enough

to poison twenty men. Lastly, because all this asked time, courses

were taken by Somerset both to divert all means of Overbury's

delivery, and to entertain Overbury by continual letters, partly of

hopes and projects for his delivery, and partly of other fables and

negotiations ; somewhat like some kind of persons (which I will

not name) which keep men in talk of fortune-telling, when they

have a felonious meaning.

And this is the true narrative of this act of impoisonment,

which I have summarily recited.

(From the Charge against the Earl of Somerset.)

A HAVEN AFTER STORM

WE sailed from Peru (where we had continued by the space of

one whole year), for China and Japan, by the South Sea; taking

with us victuals for twelve months ; and had good winds from the

east, though soft and weak, for five months' space and

more. But then the wind came about, and settled in the west

for many days, so as we could make little or no way, and were

sometimes in purpose to turn back. But then again there arose strong and great winds from the south with a point east ; which carried us up (for all that we could do) towards the north ; by which time our victuals failed us, though we had made good spare of them. So that finding ourselves in the midst of the greatest wilderness of waters in the world, without victual, we gave ourselves for lost men, and prepared for death. Yet we did lift up our hearts and voices to God above, who sheweth His wonders in the deep ; beseeching him of His mercy, that as in the beginning He discovered the face of the deep, and brought forth dry land, so He would now discover land to us, that we might not perish.

And it came to pass that the next day about evening, we saw within a kenning before us, towards the north, as it were thick clouds, which did put us in some hope of land ; knowing how that part of the South Sea was utterly unknown ; and might have islands or continents, that hitherto were not come to light. Wherefore we bent our course thither, where we saw the appearance of land, all that night ; and in the dawning of the next day, we might plainly discern that it was a land ; flat to our sight, and full of boscage ; which made it shew the more dark.

And after an hour and a half's sailing, we entered into a good haven, being the port of a fair city ; not great indeed, but well built, and that gave a pleasant view from the sea ; and we, thinking every minute long till we were on land, came close to the shore, and offered to land. But straightways we saw divers of the people, with bastons in their hands, as it were forbidding us to land ; yet without any cries or fierceness, but only as warning us off by signs that they made. Whereupon, being not a little discomforted, we were advising with ourselves what we should do.

During which time there made forth to us a small boat, with about eight persons in it ; whereof one of them had in his hand a tipstaff of a yellow cane, tipped at both ends with blue, who came aboard our ship, without any show of distrust at all. And when he saw one of our number present himself somewhat afore the rest, he drew forth a little scroll of parchment (somewhat yellower than our parchment, and shining like the leaves of writing tables, but otherwise soft and flexible) and delivered it to our foremost man. In which scroll were written in ancient Hebrew, and in ancient Greek, and in good Latin of the school, and in Spanish, these words ; " Land ye not none of you ; and provide to be gone from this coast within

sixteen days, except you have further time given you. Mean-

while, if you want fresh water, or victual, or help for your sick,

or that your ship needeth repair, write down your wants, and you

shall have that which belongeth to mercy." This scroll was

signed with a stamp of cherubins' wings, not spread, but hanging

downwards, and by them a cross. This being delivered, the

officer returned, and left only a servant with us to receive our

answer. Consulting hereupon amongst ourselves, we were much

perplexed. The denial of landing and hasty warning us away,

troubled us much ; on the other side, to find that the people had

languages and were so full of humanity, did comfort us not a

little. And above all, the sign of the cross to that instrument

was to us a great rejoicing, and as it were a certain presage of

good. Our answer was in the Spanish tongue; "That for our

ship, it was well ; for we had rather met with calms and contrary

winds than any tempests. For our sick, they were many, and in

very ill case ; so that if they were not permitted to land, they ran

danger of their lives." Our other wants we set down in par-

ticular ; adding, "that we had some little store of merchandise,

which, if it pleased them to deal for, it might supply our wants

without being chargeable unto them." We offered some reward

in pistolets unto the servant, and a piece of crimson velvet to be

presented to the officer ; but the servant took them not, nor

would scarce look upon them ; and so left us, and went back in

another little boat which was sent for him.

About three hours after we had dispatched our answer, there

came towards us a person (as it seemed) of place. He had on

him a gown with wide sleeves, of a kind of water chamo-

let, of an excellent azure colour, far more glossy than ours ;

his under apparel was green ; and so was his hat, being in the form of a

turban, daintily made, and not so huge as the Turkish turbans ;

and the locks of his hair came down below the brims of it. A

reverend man was he to behold. He came in a boat gilt in

some part of it, with four persons more only in that boat ; and

was followed by another boat, wherein were some twenty. When

he was come within a flight-shot of our ship, signs were made to

us that we should send forth some to meet him upon the water ;

which we presently did in our ship-boat, sending the principal

man amongst us save one, and four of our number with him.

When we were come within six yards of their boat, they called

to us to stay, and not to approach farther ; which we did. And

thereupon the man whom I before described stood up, and with a loud voice in Spanish, asked, "Are ye Christians?" We answered, "We were"; fearing the less, because of the cross we had seen in the superscription. At which answer the said person lifted up his right hand towards heaven, and drew it softly to his mouth (which is the gesture they use when they thank God), and then said: "If ye will swear (all of you) by the merits of the Saviour that ye are no pirates, nor have shed blood lawfully nor unlawfully within forty days past, you may have licence to come on land." We said, "We were all ready to take that oath." Whereupon one of those that were with him, being (as it seemed) a notary, made an entry of this act. Which done, another of the attendants of the great person, which was with him in the same boat, after his lord had spoken a little to him, said aloud; "My lord would have you know, that it is not of pride or greatness that he cometh not aboard your ship; but for that in your answer you declare that you have many sick amongst you, he was warned by the Conservator of Health of the city that he should keep a distance." We bowed ourselves towards him, and answered, "We were his humble servants; and accounted for great honour and singular humanity towards us that which was already done; but hoped well that the nature of the sickness of our men was not infectious." So he returned; and a while after came the notary to us aboard our ship; holding in his hand a fruit of that country, like an orange, but of colour between orange-tawney and scarlet, which cast a most excellent odour. He used it (as it seemeth) for a preservative against infection. He gave us our oath; "By the name of Jesus and his merits;" and after told us that the next day by six of the clock in the morning we should be sent to, and brought to the Strangers' House (so he called it), where we should be accommodated of things both for our whole and for our sick. So he left us; and when we offered him some pistolets, he smiling said, "He must not be twice paid for one labour;" meaning (as I take it) that he had salary sufficient of the state for his service. For (as I after learned) they call an officer that taketh rewards, twice paid.

(From the New Atlantis.)

It is mentioned in some stories that where children have been

exposed, or taken away young from their parents, and that after-

wards they have approached to their parents' presence, the parents

(although they have not known them) have had a secret joy or

other alteration thereupon.

There was an Egyptian soothsayer, that made Antonius believe

that his genius (-which otherwise was brave and confident) was, in

the presence of Octavianus Cæsar, poor and cowardly : and there-

fore he advised him to absent himself as much as he could, and

remove far from him. This soothsayer was thought to be suborned

by Cleopatra to make him live in Egypt, and other remote places

from Rome. Howsoever the conceit of a predominant or master-

ing spirit of one man over another is ancient, and received still,

even in vulgar opinion.

There are conceits that some men, that are of an ill and

melancholy nature, do incline the company into which they come

to be sad and ill-disposed ; and contrariwise, that others, that

are of a jovial nature, do dispose the company to be merry and

cheerful. And again, that some men are lucky to be kept com-

pany with and employed ; and others unlucky. Certainly it is

agreeable to reason, that there are at the least some light

effluxions from spirit to spirit, when men are in presence one

with another, as well as from body to body.

It hath been observed that old men who have loved young

company and been conversant continually with them, have been

of long life ; their spirits (as it seemeth) being recreated by

such company. Such were the ancient sophists and rhetoricians ;

which ever had young auditors and disciples; as Gorgias, Prota-

goras, Isocrates, etc., who lived till they were an hundred years

old. And so likewise did many of the grammarians and school-

masters ; such as was Orbilius, etc.

Audacity and confidence doth, in civil business, so great effects,

as a man may reasonably doubt that, besides the very daring and

earnestness and persisting and importunity, there should be some

secret binding and stooping of other men's spirits to such persons.

The affections (no doubt) do make the spirits more powerful

and active ; and especially those affections which draw the spirits

into the eyes: which are two: love, and envy, which is called

oculus malus. As for love, the Platonists (some of them) go so

far as to hold that the spirit of the lover doth pass into the spirits

of the person loved; which causeth the desire of return into the

body whence it was emitted: whereupon followeth that appetite

of contact and conjunction which is in lovers. And this is ob-

served likewise, that the aspects that procure love, are not gazings,

but sudden glances and dartings of the eye. As for envy, that

emitteth some malign and poisonous spirit, which taketh hold of

the spirit of another; and is likewise of greatest force when the

cast of the eye is oblique. It hath been noted also that it is most

dangerous when an envious eye is cast upon persons in glory and

triumph and joy: the reason whereof is, for that at such times the

spirits come forth most into the outward parts, and so meet the

percussion of the envious eye more at hand; and therefore it hath

been noted, that after great triumphs, men have been ill-disposed

for some days following. We see the opinion of fascination is

ancient, for both effects: of procuring love, and sickness caused

by envy: and fascination is ever by the eye. But yet if there be

any such infection from spirit to spirit, there is no doubt but that

it worketh by presence, and not by the eye alone; yet most

forcibly by the eye.

Fear and shame are likewise infective; for we see that the

starting of one will make another ready to start: and when one

man is out of countenance in a company, others do likewise blush

in his behalf.

Now we will speak of the force of imagination upon other

bodies, and of the means to exalt and strengthen it. Imagina-

tion in this place I understand to be the representation of an in-

dividual thought. Imagination is of three kinds: the first joined

with belief of that which is to come: the second joined with

memory of that which is past: and the third is of things present,

or as if they were present: for I comprehend in this, imaginations

feigned and at pleasure; as if one should imagine such a man to

be in the vestments of a pope, or to have wings. I single out,

for this time, that which is with faith or belief of that which is to

come. The inquisition of this subject in our way (which is by

induction) is wonderful hard: for the things that are reported are

full of fables; and new experiments can hardly be made but with

extreme caution, for the reason which we will hereafter declare.

The power of imagination is in three kinds: the first upon the

body of the imaginant, including likewise the child in the mother's

womb ; the second is, the power of it upon dead bodies, as plants,

wood, stone, metal, etc. ; the third is, the power of it upon the

spirits of men and living creatures : and with this last we will

only meddle.

The problem therefore is, whether a man constantly and

strongly believing that such a thing shall be (as that such an

one will love him, or that such an one will grant him his request,

or that such an one shall recover a sickness, or the like), it doth

help any thing to the effecting of the thing itself. And here

again we must warily distinguish ; for it is not meant (as hath

been partly said before) that it should help by making a man

more stout, or more industrious (in which kind constant belief

doth much) ; but merely by a secret operation, or binding, or

changing the spirit of another : and in this it is hard (as we

began to say) to make any new experiment ; for I cannot com-

mand myself to believe what I will, and so no trial can be made.

Nay, it is worse ; for whatsoever a man imagineth doubtingly, or

with fear, must needs do hurt, if imagination have any power at

all ; for a man representeth that oftener that he feareth, than the

contrary.

The help therefore is, for a man to work by another in whom

he may create belief, and not by himself until himself have found

by experience, that imagination doth prevail ; for then experience

worketh in himself belief ; if the belief that such a thing shall be,

be joined with a belief that his imagination may procure it.

(From the Sylva Sylvarum.)

HAYWARD

[John Hayward (1564-1627) was born at Felixstowe and educated at Pembroke College, Cambridge. In 1599 he wrote a History of the First Year of Henry IV., and, through the fulsome flattery which he addressed to Essex in the dedication, he brought himself, as it would appear, unintentionally, under the displeasure of Queen Elizabeth, and was imprisoned on suspicion of sympathy with the designs of Essex. After the accession of James I. he was patronised by the court, practised with profit as a lawyer, and was knighted in 1619. He wrote on the Succession to the Crown, as a defender of divine right, and was involved in a controversy thereon with Parsons the Jesuit, who wrote under the name of R. Dolman. Encouraged by Prince Henry he wrote lives of William I., William II., and Henry I.; and his works comprise a History of the Reign of Edward VI., and one of the beginning of the reign of Elizabeth, which was not printed till 1840. He also wrote many forgotten works on religious topics.]

Although Hayward holds no high place even amongst the historians of his own age, there is much that is characteristic about him, and he marks a distinct phase of literary style. Anthony Wood thought his historical work good, but too "dramatic"—that is to say, in modern language, too much coloured for the sake of effect, and written with too little regard to strict historical accuracy. A certain interest attaches to him as the colleague of Camden in Chelsea College, founded by James I. ; but there is no such permanent value in his work as there is in that of his colleague. Hayward makes much show of learning. He adduces proofs and illustrations from a very wide range of subjects, but he has no idea whatever of historical proportion ; he drags in his authorities with no thought of their appositeness, and he has no conception whatever of criticism. But in spite of this his history marks a distinct step forward in the historical style. He sets before himself clearly the aim of rising out of the track of the older annalists, and of giving some literary finish to history. He has recounted a conversation between himself and Prince

Henry, in which his patron urges him to undertake what he himself admits to be a want in the English language, a style of historical narrative which shall more nearly approach the classical models, and shall be more worthy of the part which England played in history.

With this end in view Hayward has drawn abundantly upon the Latin historians—upon Livy, to a large extent, but still more markedly upon Tacitus.

Nothing could illustrate Hayward's position better than the discussion between Queen Elizabeth and Bacon, of which Bacon himself has left the record.

Elizabeth complained to Bacon of Hayward's unlucky first attempt, and asked if Bacon "could not find places that might be drawn within the case of treason."

"For treason surely," answered Bacon, "I find none, but for felony very many."

"And when Her Majesty asked me hastily, 'Wherein?' I told her the author had committed very apparent theft ; for he had taken most of the sentences of Cornelius Tacitus and translated them into English, and put them into his text.

And another time when the Queen would not be persuaded that it was his writing whose name was to it, but that it had some more mischievous author, and said, with great indignation, that she would have him racked to produce his author, I replied, 'Nay, Madam, he is a doctor ; never rack his person, but rack his style, and let him have pen, ink, and paper, and help of books, and be enjoined to continue the story where it breaketh off, and I will undertake by collating the style to judge whether he were the author or no.'"

Hayward's style could indeed be "racked" without any undue cruelty.

There is very little art in his imitation of his models, and he has scarcely mastered the manner so far as to give much attention either to the selection or critical examination of the matter.

But it is something that he pursued, according to his lights, a distinct literary style in history, and thereby produced a noticeable effect on his successors.

He is frequently dramatic in the better sense, and not only in the worse sense condemned by Wood.

His diction is formal, and though sometimes forcible, often involved and confused.

One of the most artificial features in his writing is the frequent introduction of imaginary speeches on the classical model : and the historical value of such speeches may well be tried by the following fantastic passage, which Hayward puts into the mouth of Edward VI. as expressing the boy's regret for his part in the death of his uncle, the Protector Somerset.

"And where then," said he, "was the good nature of a nephew ?

Where was the clemency of a prince ?

Ah, how

unfortunate I have been to those of my blood! My mother I

slew at my very birth, and since have made away two of her

brothers, and haply to make a way for the purposes of others

against myself. Was it ever known before that a king's uncle, a

lord protector, one whose fortunes had much advanced the honour

of the realm, did lose his head for a felony, a felony neither clear

in law, and in fact weakly proved! Alas, how falsely I have been

abused! How weakly carried! How little was I master over

my own judgment, that both his death and the envy thereof must

be charged upon me!"

The history was certainly not very critical that could tolerate

rhodomontade such as this; and such "dramatic" qualities as it

has are drawn from the very worst stage models of Hayward's

own days. But it would be unjust to measure his style by such

an example. It was an honest though mistaken result of his

study of his models: and that study led to much that was good,

along with à considerable mixture of what was absurd.

H. CRAIK.

DIFFICULTIES IN REIGN OF EDWARD VI.

On the other side King Edward added to his glory, courtesy, and liberality, showing himself most gracious in countenance to all, and giving rewards suitable to every man's performance or place. The lord protector he rewarded with lands of the yearly value of £500; and certain it is that these first fortunes raised unto him a great respect both in other countries and among his own people, and the rather because he was discerned to be much searching both into the counsels and after the events of all his affairs, and likewise into the condition and state both of his own strength and of the countries near unto him.

But these prosperous proceedings were not only hindered, in their fairest course, but altogether stayed, and in some measure turned back, by reason of the unadvised forwardness of divers chief counsellors, in making both sudden and unseasonable alterations in matters of state, whose greedy desires of having their wills in all they liked bred both trouble to the realm and to themselves danger. For great and sudden changes are never without danger, unless the prince be both well settled in government and able to bear out his actions by power; but while King Edward was both unripe in years and new in government, to attempt a change both sudden and great could not but be accompanied with many mischiefs. The great matters wherein alteration was wrought were especially two, religion, and enclosures.

Now for that religion is of so high and noble a nature, of so absolute necessity in a commonwealth, that it is esteemed the foundation of laws, and the common band of human society, no sudden alteration can almost be made therein, but many will be induced thereby to attempt some alteration in rule, whence (saith Dio) conspiracies and seditions are often occasioned. For religion being seated in the high throne of conscience, is a most powerful ruler of the soul, and far preferred before estimation of

life, or any other worldly respect; for this advanceth man to the

highest happiness, it leadeth him to his last end; all other things

are but instruments, this is the hand; all other things are but

accessories, this is the principal. And therefore as all men are

naturally moved by religion, so when they are violently thrust

forward by those who (as Livy speaketh) make it their purpose to

possess souls by superstition, then do they break all bands of

reason and of rule, no persuasion of the one, no command of the

other can then restrain them. Multitudo ubi religione capta est,

melius vatibus quam ducibus suis paret (Curt. lib. iv.)

I will not deny but that some change in religion is often

expedient and sometimes necessary; because, more in that than

in any other thing, it is hard to contain men from running into

one of these extremes, either of vain superstition, or of careless

contempt. But this must be done with a soft and tender hand,

and as Cicero speaketh, Ut quam minimo sonitu orbis in republica

convertatur. Some respect should also have been given to those

green times, to the monstrous multitude muffled with two great

plagues and corruptions of judgment, custom, and ignorance,

whereto may be added grief at their own wants and envy at the

prosperity of others, especially for that many bold spirits were

busied, not only to incense, but to lead them into much variety

of mischief. And if it be said that King Henry the Eighth had

quietly passed the like change before; I answer, the example was

not then to be followed, the kings were not equal either in spirit

or in power. Even as it is in the fable, that albeit an eagle did

bear away a lamb in her talons with full flight, yet a raven

endeavouring to do the like was held entangled and fettered in

the fleece.

Touching enclosures, I am not ignorant what a profitable

purchase is made thereby, not only to particular persons, but

generally to the whole commonwealth, in case it be without

depopulation, because a company of lands enclosed are thereby

improved in worth two or three parts at the least; hereby two

great commodities ensue, riches and multitude of people, because

the more riches are raised out of lands, the more people are

thereby maintained. This doth plainly appear by two shires,

almost equal, both in greatness and in goodness of soil: North-

ampton much champaign and Somerset altogether enclosed. For

if estimation be made by musters, and by subsidies, tenths, and

fifteenths, enclosure hath made the one county more than double

to exceed the other, both in people and in wealth.

Notwithstanding the Lord Protector gaping after the fruitless

breath of the multitude, and more desirous to please the most

than the best, caused a proclamation to be set forth against

enclosures, commanding that they who had enclosed any lands

accustomed to lie open should, upon a certain pain, before a day

assigned lay them open again. This proclamation, whilst few

were forward to obey, gave occasion to the mutinous multitude,

instable in judgment, and tempestuous when they are stirred, all

carried with a headlong rashness, and one following another, as

wiser than himself, immoderately both in desire and hope to be

easily drawn by others who had deeper reaches than themselves,

to matters which at the first they had the least intended.

(From History of Edward VI.)

THE PROTECTOR SOMERSET AND HIS BROTHER

Whilst these two brothers held in amity, they were like two

arms, the one defending the other, and both of them the king.

But many things did move together to dissolve their love, and

bring them to ruin : first, their contrary disposition, the one being

tractable and mild, the other stiff, and impatient of a superior,

whereby they lived but in cunning concord, as brothers glued

together, but not united in grain : then much secret envy was

born against them, for that their new lustre did dim the light of

men honoured with ancient nobility. Lastly, they were openly

minded, as hasty and soon moved, so uncircumspect and easy to

be blinded. By these the knot, not only of love but of nature,

between them was dissolved ; so much the more pity, for that the

first cause proceeded from the pride, the haughty hate, the

unquiet vanity, of a mannish, or rather of a devilish woman.

For the Lord Sudley had taken to wife Katharine Parr, Queen-

Dowager, last wife to King Henry the Eighth : a woman beauti-

fied with many excellent virtues, especially with humility, the

beauty of all other virtues. The Duke had taken to wife Anne

Stanhope, a woman for many imperfections intolerable, but for

pride monstrous : she was exceeding both subtle and violent in

accomplishing her ends, for which she spurned over all respects both of conscience and of shame. This woman did bear such invincible hate, first against the queen-dowager, for light causes and womens' quarrels, especially for that she had precedency of place before her, being wife to the greatest peer in the land ; then to the Lord Sudley for her sake, that, albeit the queen-dowager died by childbirth, yet would not her malice either die or decrease, but continually she rubbed into the duke's dull capacity, that the Lord Sudley, dissenting from him in opinion of religion, sought nothing more than to take away his life, as well in regard of the common cause of religion, as thereby happily to regain his place. Many other things, she boldly feigned, being assuredly of easy belief in her heedless hearer, always fearful and suspicious (as of feeble spirit), but then more than ever by reason of some late opposition against him. Her persuasions she cunningly intermingled with tears, affirming, that she would depart from him, as willing rather to hear both of his disgraces and dangers, than either to see the one or participate of the other.

The duke embracing his woman's counsel (a woman's counsel indeed, and nothing the better), yielded himself both to advise and devise for destruction of his brother. The Earl of Warwick had his finger in the business, and drew others also to give either furtherance or way to her violent desires ; being well content she should have her mind, so as the duke might thereby incur infamy and hate. Hereupon the Lord Sudley was arrested, and sent to the Tower ; and in very short time after, condemned by Act of Parliament. And within few days after his condemnation, a warrant was sent under the hand of his brother the duke, whereby his head was delivered to the axe. His own fierce courage hastened his death, because equally balanced between doubt and disdain, he was desirous rather to die at once, than to linger long upon courtesy and in fear.

The accusations against him contained much frivolous matter, or call it pitiful, if you please. The Act of Parliament expresses these causes of his attainder. For attempting to get into his custody the person of the king and government of the realm ; for making much provision of money and of victuals; for endeavouring to marry the Lady Elizabeth, the king's sister ; for persuading the king in his tender age to take upon him the rule and order of himself. The proofs might easily be made, because he was never called to his answer. But as well the protestations at the point

VOL. II

E

of his death as the open course and carriage of his life, cleared him in opinion of many. So doubtful are all weighty matters, whilst some take all they hear for certain, others making question of any truths, posterity enlarging both. Dr. Latimer pretending all the gravity and sincerity of a professed divine, yet content to be serviceable to great men's ends, declared in a sermon before the king that whilst the Lord Sudley was a prisoner in the Tower he wrote to the Lady Mary and the Lady Elizabeth, the king's sisters, that they should revenge his death; which indeed the Lady Mary afterwards more truly did, by executing the Earl of Warwick, than either she was, or at that time could in particular be required. Many other imputations he cast forth besides, most doubted, many known to be untrue. And so, whereas Papinian, a civil lawyer but a heathen, chose rather to die than to defend the murder which the Emperor Caracalla had done upon his brother Geta, some theologians have been employed to defile places erected only for religion and truth by defending oppressions and factions, staining their professions and the good arts which they had learned, by publishing odious untruths upon report and credit of others.

O wives! the most sweet poison, the most desired evil in the world! Certainly as it is true, as Syracides saith, that there is no malice like the malice of a woman, so no mischief wanteth where a malicious woman beareth sway. A woman was first given to man for a comforter; but not for a counsellor, much less a controller and director; and therefore in the first sentence against man this cause is expressed, Because thou obeyedst the voice of thy wife. And doubtless the Protector by being thus ruled to the death of his brother, seemed with his left hand to have cut off his right; for hereupon many of the nobility cried out upon him, that he was a blood-sucker, a parricide, a villain, and that it was not fit the king should be under the protection of such a ravenous wolf. Soon after it was given forth, and believed by many, that the king was dead; whereupon he passed in great state through the city of London, to manifest that he was both alive and in good health. Whether this speech were spread either by adventure or by art, it is uncertain; certain it is, it did something shake the strength of the king's affection towards the Protector.

(From the Same.)

JOHN HAYWARD

51

PUBLIC FEARS

THE last sickness of Queen Mary was both exceeding sharp and of long continuance, her body being wearied, and almost wasted, with the violence of her disease; her mind anguished with thoughts, no less strange for variety, than strong for the great importance they drew, whereof some (doubtless) were secret and singular.

And whilst she lay thus languishing under the heavy hand of death, many false rumours were spread abroad that she was dead : whereupon a notable example might have been seen how in a royal state the surety of the common people depends much upon the life and safety of their prince.

For every man's mind was then travailed with a strange confusion of conceits, all things being immoderately either dreaded or desired.

Every report was greedily both inquired and received, all truths suspected, divers tales believed, many improbable conjectures hatched and nourished.

Invasion of strangers, civil dissension, the doubtful disposition of the succeeding prince, were cast in every man's conceit as present perils ; but no man did busy his wits in contriving remedies.

They who held themselves in danger, seemed to desire nothing but safety ; they who apprehended any opinion of safety, did rise into unreasonable desire of liberty ; wherein they were as various as in anything beside, as well for the particulars, as for the limits of that which they desired.

In this medley of thoughts, some thought to save themselves by adherents, some by adjoining to those who had more to lose than themselves ; some stood upon their proper strength, either for their own preservation, or for abating of such as they esteemed too great.

Generally, the rich were fearful, the wise careful, the honestly-disposed doubtful, the discontented and the desperate, and all such whose desires were both immoderate and evil, joyful, as wishing trouble, the gate of spoil.

(From Annals of Elizabeth.)

QUEEN ELIZABETH

AND for that the presence of the prince is of greatest moment to establish affairs, the queen, the next day after her title was proclaimed, removed from Hatfield, in Hertfordshire, where she then

lay, towards London; and was upon the way encountered and

entertained in all places with such a concourse of people, with so

lively representations of love, joy, and hope, that it far exceeded

her expectation. The people of all sorts (even such whose fortunes

were unlike either to be amended or impaired by change) went

many miles out the city to see her, some upon particular affection

to her person, some upon opinion of good to the State, some upon

an ordinary levity and delight in change, and not a few because

they would do as others did; all with like fervency contending

who should most nearly approach unto her, who should most

cheerfully bestow upon her all honourable titles and happy wishes.

Now, if ever any person had either the gift or the style to win

the hearts of people, it was this queen; and if ever she did express

the same, it was at that present, in coupling mildness with majesty

as she did, and in stately stooping to the meanest sort. All her

faculties were in motion, and every motion seemed a well guided

action; her eye was set upon one, her ear listened to another,

her judgment ran upon a third, to a fourth she addressed her

speech; her spirit seemed to be everywhere, and yet so entire in

herself, as it seemed to be nowhere else. Some she pitied, some

she commended, some she thanked, at others she pleasantly and

wittily jested, contemning no person, neglecting no office; and

distributing her smiles, looks, and graces, so artificially, that

thereupon the people again redoubled the testimonies of their joys;

and afterwards, raising everything to the highest strain, filled the

ears of all men with immoderate extolling their prince.

She was a lady, upon whom nature had bestowed, and well

placed, many of her fairest favours; of stature mean, slender,

straight, and amiably composed; of such state in her carriage as

every motion of her seemed to bear majesty: her hair was inclined

to pale yellow, her forehead large and fair, a seeming seat for

princely grace; her eyes lively and sweet, but short-sighted; her

nose somewhat rising in the midst; the whole compass of her

countenance somewhat long, but yet of admirable beauty, not so

much in that which is termed the flower of youth, as in a most

delightful composition of majesty and modesty in equal mixture.

But without good qualities of mind the gifts of nature are like

painted flowers, without either virtue or sap; yea, sometimes they

grow horrid and loathsome. Now her virtues were such as might

suffice to make an Ethiopian beautiful, which, the more a man

knows and understands, the more he shall admire and love. In

life, she was most innocent ; in desires, moderate ; in purpose, just ; in spirit, above credit and almost capacity of her sex ; of divine wit, as well for depth of judgment, as for quick conceit and speedy expedition ; of eloquence, as sweet in the utterance, so ready and easy to come to the utterance ; of wonderful knowledge both in learning and affairs ; skilful not only in the Latin and Greek, but also in divers other foreign languages : none knew better the hardest art of all others, that is, of commanding men, nor could more use themselves to those cares without which the royal dignity could not be supported. She was religious, magnanimous, merciful, and just ; respective of the honour of others, and exceeding tender in the touch of her own. She was lovely and loving, the two principal bands of duty and obedience. She was very ripe and measured in counsel and experience, as well not to let go occasions, as not to take them when they were green. She maintained justice at home, and arms abroad, with great wisdom and authority in either place. Her majesty seemed to all to shine through courtesy : but as she was not easy to receive any to especial grace, so was she most constant to those whom she received ; and of great judgment to know to what point of greatness men were fit to be advanced. She was rather liberal than magnificent, making good choice of the receivers ; and by this cause was thought weak by some against the desire of money. But it is certain that beside the want of treasure which she found, her continual affairs in Scotland, France, the Low Countries, and in Ireland, did occasion great provision of money, which could not be better supplied than by cutting off either excessive or unnecessary expense at home. Excellent queen ! what do my words but wrong thy worth ? what do I but gild gold ? what but show the sun with a candle, in attempting to praise thee, whose honour doth fly over the whole world upon the two wings of magnanimity and justice, whose perfection shall much dim the lustre of all other that shall be of thy sex ? I will no longer stay upon general descriptions, but proceed to such particular acts as shall justify much more than I have said.

When she came to London, she was lodged the first night in the Charter-house, where many great persons, either for birth, or worthiness (or place in the state) resorted unto her ; and now rising from dejected fears to ambitious hopes, contended who should catch the first hold of her favour. The Queen did bear herself moderately and respectively to all, desiring them, if they

would not be deceived in her, that they would not be the first to deceive themselves : that they would not prejudice her in their opinions, as not by uncourteous suspicions and doubts, so not by immoderate expectations and hopes, promising unto themselves out of a sudden liking more than is fit, or peradventure possible, to be performed: the failure whereof would either change or abate their loves : that they would lay aside all fore-taken conceits, which, like painted glass, doth colour all things which are seen through it. Lastly, that they would not too rashly judge of her actions, as being privy neither to the occasions of them, nor to their ends.

So, after she had passed the offices of court done to her by the nobility and others, the day following, in the afternoon, she rode from thence to the Tower. At the Charter-house gate the mayor of the city met her, and the recorder with a short speech saluted her in the name of the whole city. She rode in great state through Barbican, the mayor riding with Garter King-at-Arms, and carrying a sceptre before her ; she entered at Cripplegate, and so passed by the wall to Bishopsgate. This gate was richly hanged, and thereupon the waits of the city sounded loud music. At the head of the street a scholar of Paul's School made to her a short speech in Latin verses ; next unto him stood the Company of Mercers within their rails, and after them all the other companies, extending to the farthest end of Mark Lane. When she entered Mark Lane a peal of ordnance began at the Tower, which continued half an hour or thereabouts. The presence of the queen gave perfection and life to all these solemnities. She answered such speeches as were made to her ; she graced every person either of dignity or employment ; she so cheerfully both observed and accepted everything, that in the judgment of all men, all these honours were esteemed too mean for her worth. When she was entered into the Tower, she thus spoke to those about her ; "Some have fallen from being princes of this land, to be prisoners in this place ; I am raised from being prisoner in this place, to be prince of this land. That dejection was a work of God's justice ; this advancement is a work of His mercy ; as they were to yield patience for the one, so I must bear myself towards God thankful, and to men merciful and beneficial for the other."

(From the Same.)

JOHN HAYWARD

55

THE JESUITS

IT is a rule in nature that one contrary is manifested by the

other. Let us compare then your boisterous doctrine with that of

the apostles and ancient fathers of the Church, and we shall find

that one is like the rough spirit which hurled the herd of swine

headlong into the sea ; the other like the still and soft spirit which

talked with Elias.

Neither was the devil ever able, until in late declining times,

to possess the hearts of Christians with these cursed opinions,

which do evermore beget a world of murders, rapes, ruins, and

desolations. For tell me, what if the prince, whom you persuade

the people they have power to depose, be able to make and main-

tain his party, as King John and King Henry the Third did

against their barons ! What if other princes, whom it doth con-

cern, as well in honour, to see the law of nations observed, as also

in policy, to break those proceedings which may form precedents

against themselves, do adjoin to the side ! What if whilst the

prince and the people are (as was the frog and the mouse) in the

heat of their encounter, some other potentate play the kite with

them both, as the Turk did with the Hungarians ? Is it not then

a fine piece of policy which you do plot ? or is it not a gross error

to raise those dangers, and to leave the defence to possibilities

doubtful ?

Go to, sirs, go to, there is no Christian country which hath

not by your devices been wrapped in wars. You have set the

empire on float with blood ; your fires in France are not yet

extinguished ; in Polonia and all those large countries, extending

from the north to the east, you have caused of late more battles

to be fought, than had been in five hundred years before. Your

practices have heretofore prevailed against us : of late years you

have busied yourselves in no one thing more, than how to set

other Christian Princes on our necks ; stirring up such a store of

enemies against us, as, like the grasshoppers of Egypt, might fill

our houses, and cover our whole land, and make more doubt of

room than of resistance. Our own people also you have pro-

voked to unnatural attempts : you have exposed our country as a

prey to them that will either invade or betray it ; supposing

belike that you play Christ's part well when you may say as

Christ did :-Think not that I came to send peace : I came not to send peace, but a sword.

But when, by the power and providence of God, all these attempts have rather shown what good hearts you bear towards us, than done us any great harm ; when in all these practices you have missed the mark, now you do take another aim : now having no hope by extremity of arms, you endeavour to execute your malice, by giving dangerous advice ; now you go about to entangle us.with titles, which is the greatest misery that can fall upon a State.

You pretend fair shows of liberty and of power, Sed timeo Danaos et dona ferentes : we cannot but suspect the courtesies of our enemies : the power which you gave us will pull us down ; the liberty whereof you speak will fetter us in bondage.

When Themistocles came to the Persian court, Artabanus, captain of the guard, knowing that he would use no ceremony to their king, kept him out of presence, and said unto him :-You Grecians esteem us barbarous for honouring our kings, but we Persians esteem it the greatest honour to us that can be.

The like answer will we frame unto you :-You Jesuits account it a bondage to be obedient unto kings, but we Christians account it the greatest means for our continuance both free and safe.

(From The Right of Succession Asserted.)

JAMES VI.

[James VI. of Scotland and I. of England was born in 1566, and died in 1625. From his fourth till at least his twelfth year James was educated at Stirling Castle with several youths of noble family, under the care of George Buchanan and Peter Young. He was naturally clever, and made rapid progress in his studies, which included Latin, Greek, French, history, logic, and rhetoric. We are told by Killigrew that at the age of ten he ' translated a chapter of the Bible from Latin into French, and from French into English, extempore'; and James Melville, speaking of a visit he paid the King, says, that 'it was the sweetest sight in Europe that day for strange and extraordinary gifts of ingine, judgment, memory, and language.' At twelve years of age he had nominally to take the government into his own hands. His tender age was, as his tutor laments, 'engrossed by the attentions of flatterers,' and distracted by the 'fechting and flyting' of those whom Melville terms ' bot factious, fasschious, ambitious, greedy, vengeable, warldly, wretchit creatours.' James's juvenile production, Essays of a Prentice in the Divine Art of Poetry (1584), was probably written as themes for his tutors. Two Meditations on the Revelations (1588-89) are indicative of his theological bent. Demonology (1597), Basilikon Doron (1599), and A Counterblast to Tobacco (1604), are his best known essays. The remainder, and much the larger portion, of his writings deals with political and theological questions, which have for their centre his cherished tenet of the 'divine right of kings.' The most important of these are The True Law of Free Monarchy (1603), An Apology for the Oath of Allegiance (1607), and A Defence of the Right of Kings (1615). The Bishop of Winton published in 1616 an edition of his prose works, which included his speeches and some occasional tracts.]

It is usual to introduce James I. among the writers of his reign with an apology; and it is commonly, and perhaps justly, held that his works would long ago have been forgotten, had they not been written by a monarch. Yet there is another side to this; for it is none the less true that his name as an author has suffered from his notoriety as a king. In spite of the somewhat more favourable estimate of later historians, such as Gardiner and Ranke, James I. retains an unenviable reputation. His position,

moreover, has given an undue prominence to certain weaknesses characteristic of his time. The belief in witchcraft which he shows in his Demonology, and the pedantry of his disquisitions against Bellarmine and Vorstius, in which, according to his first editor, "his Majesty fought with beasts at Ephesus, and stopped the roaring of the Bull," were an inheritance shared by most of his contemporaries. To charge him with these faults is merely to say that he was not greater than his age. Yet, though James was a scholar and writer of at least more than average talent and attainments, it has to be admitted that under no circumstances could he have taken high rank in literature. His prosaic and pragmatical nature was too rocky a soil for even Buchanan to cultivate to any purpose. Without genuine spontaneity of emotion, originality of thought, or expanse of outlook, his mind, as has been said, "was essentially of that type which knowledge neither broadens nor enriches." The charge of pedantry is in this sense valid against all his writings. But from its more aggressive form of ostentation of learning and irrelevant quotation they are moderately free. The margin of Basilikon Doron teems with references to Plato, Aristotle, Isocrates, Cicero, and the Bible; but they do not, as a rule, burden the text. And in such treatises as A Defence of the Right of Kings an exhibition of learning was unavoidable; for he was attacking the parade of learning by his opponents. If tediously scholastic, their scholarship is thorough, and their logic so far sound. His errors, like those of his age, lay latent in his premises.

The Basilikon Doron is James's most readable production; containing some good sense, shrewd advice, and worldly wisdom. But unfortunately the reader cannot avoid estimating these in the light of James's after conduct. He is reminded of Polonius. When the writer of Demonology warns his son against the evils of superstition, or the patron of Carr and Villiers denounces "that filthy vice of flattery, the pest of all princes," and urges upon his son the choice of his counsellors from the wisest among the "born-men of each country, if God provide you with more countries than this," the reader is almost justified in taking in his own way the King's assurance to his Parliament of 1609: "In faith, you never had a more painful King."

James's compositions have none of the subtler qualities of literary excellence. The construction of his sentences is usually correct and careful, his expressions and metaphors are often

pointed and forcible, but he rarely attempts any flight of rhetoric ; and when he does, he is rarely successful. The only subject on which he approaches to dignity of style is that in which alone he seems to have had an absolutely sincere conviction—the divinity of kingship. “It becometh a King,” he was in the habit of reminding his Commons, “ to use no other eloquence than plainness and sincerity.” He held, “ that which we call wit consists much in quickness and tricks, and is so full of lightness that it seldom goes with judgment and solidity.” It was to the latter qualities that James laid claim in his works. Though he seems in conversation to have been addicted to punning, in his Basilikon Doron he but once falls into the fashionable word-play of his age, when he reminds his son that he is “born to onus, rather than honos.” There is almost no trace of the far-fetched conceits and antitheses of his contemporaries ; for these his mind was probably too heavy, his nature too phlegmatic. He jokes after a lumbering fashion—‘ with difficulty.’ His cast of thought is seen in the artificial division under heads, with which he opens and arranges every essay : a habit so ingrained, that in his speech after the Gunpowder Plot, he has under his first head a subdivision to consider “the three ways how mankind may come to death ”: “ The first, by other men and reasonable creatures, which is least cruel ;” “ the second way more cruel than that, by animal and unreasoning creatures ;” “ the third, which is most cruel and unmerciful of all, the destruction by insensible and inanimate things ; and amongst them all, the most cruel are the two elements of water and fire ; and of those two the fire most raging and merciless.” Yet amid the diffuse formalism of his scholastic and theological argumentation, there is frequently a pithy saying or apt allusion, which recalls the best of Overbury's Crumbs fallen from King James's Table. If these are authentic notes, it is unfortunate that, in his case as in that of many others, he did not write as he spoke.

Pedant as he was, James refused to follow the practice of writing in Latin, which was kept up among scholars of even later times. This is the one point in which he wisely departed from the example of his master. With the exception of his youthful essay on poetry in the Scots dialect, James wrote in English ; but he continued, consciously or not, to make frequent use of Scots words. These are especially noticeable in his works before he became king of England : in his later writings they are more

occasional. Had James succeeded in originating a movement whereby the English vocabulary could have been enriched by Scots words, he would have done English literature a permanent service. But, though he was not great enough to take any new departure, it must not be forgotten that he was the most learned of our monarchs.

W. S. M'CORMICK.

ON THE EDUCATION OF A PRINCE

THE next thing that ye have to take heed to, is your speaking and language; whereunto I join your gesture, since action is one of the chiefest qualities that is required in an orator : for as the tongue speaketh to the ears, so doth the gesture speak to the eyes of the auditor. In both your speaking and your gesture, use a natural and plain form, not fairded with artifice ; for (as the Frenchmen say) Rien contrefait fin: but eschew all affectate forms in both.

In your language be plain, honest, natural, comely, clean, short, and sententious, eschewing both the extremities, as well in not using any rustical corrupt leide, as book-language and pen and ink-horn terms, and least of all, mignard and effeminate terms. But let the greatest part of your eloquence consist in a natural, clear and sensible form of the delivery of your mind, builded ever upon certain and good grounds ; tempering it with gravity, quickness or merriness, according to the subject and occasion of the time ; not taunting in theology, nor alleging and profaning the Scripture in drinking purposes, as over many do.

Use also the like form in your gesture ; neither looking sillily, like a stupid pedant, nor unsettledly with an uncouth morgue like a new-come-over cavalier : but let your behaviour be natural, grave, and according to the fashion of the country. Be not over-sparing in your courtesies, for that will be imputed to incivility and arrogancy ; nor yet over prodigal in jowking or nodding at every step, for that form of being popular becometh better aspiring Absaloms than lawful kings: framing ever your gesture according to your present actions: looking gravely and with a majesty when ye sit in judgment or give audience to ambassadors ; homely, when ye are in private with your own servants ; merrily, when ye are at any pastime or merry discourse ; and let your countenance smell of courage and magnanimity when ye are at the wars. And remember (I say over again) to

be plain and sensible in your language : for besides that it is the

tongue's office to be the messenger of the mind, it may be thought

a point of imbecility of spirit in a King, to speak obscurely, much

more untruly ; as if he stood in awe of any in uttering his thoughts.

Remember also to put a difference betwixt your form of

language in reasoning, and your pronouncing of sentences, or

declarator of your will in judgment, or any other ways in the

points of your office. For in the former case, ye must reason

pleasantly and patiently, not like a king, but like a private man

and a scholar ; otherwise, your impatience of contradiction will

be interpreted to be for lack of reason on your part. Where in

the points of your office, ye should ripely advise indeed, before

ye give forth your sentence ; but fra it be given forth, the suffering

of any contradiction diminisheth the majesty of your authority,

and maketh the processes endless. The like form would also be

observed by all your inferior judges and magistrates.

Now as to your writing, which is nothing else but a form of

en-registrate speech ; use a plain, short, but stately style, both

in your proclamations and missives, especially to foreign princes.

And if your engine spur you to write any works, either in verse or

in prose, I cannot but allow you to practise it : but take no long-

some works in hand, for distracting you from your calling.

Flatter not yourself in your labours, but before they be set

forth, let them first be privily censured by some of the best

skilled men in that craft that in these works ye meddle with.

And because your writes will remain as true pictures of your

mind to all posterities, let them be free of all uncomeliness and

unhonesty ; and according to Horace his counsel, Nonumque

premantur in annum. I mean both your verse and your prose ;

letting first that fury and heat, wherewith they were written, cool

at leisure ; and then as an uncouth judge and censor, revising

them oyer again before they be published, quia nescit vox missa

reverti.

If ye would write worthily, choose subjects worthy of you,

that be not full of vanity, but of virtue ; eschewing obscurity, and

delighting ever to be plain and sensible. And if ye write in

verse, remember that it is not the principal part of a poem to

rhyme right, and flow well with many pretty words : but the

chief commendation of a poem is, that when the verse shall be

shaken sundry in prose, it shall be found so rich in quick inven-

tions, and poetic flowers, and in fair and pertinent comparisons,

as it shall retain the lustre of a poem, although in prose. And I would also advise you to write in your own language ; for there is nothing left to be said in Greek or Latin already, and ynew of poor scholars would match you in these languages ; and besides that, it best becometh a King to purify and make famous his own tongue, wherein he may go before all his subjects, as it setteth him well to do in all honest and lawful things.

And amongst all unnecessary things that are lawful and expedient, I think exercises of the body most commendable to be used by a young Prince, in such honest games or pastimes as may further ability and maintain health. For albeit I grant it to be most requisite for a King to exercise his engine, which surely with idleness will rust and become blunt ; yet certainly bodily exercises and games are very commendable, as well for banishing of idleness (the mother of all vice) as for making his body able and durable for travel, which is very necessary for a King.

But from this count I debar all rough and violent exercises, as the foot-ball ; meeter for laming than making able the users thereof: as likewise such tumbling tricks as only serve for comedians and balladines, to win their bread with. But the exercises that I would have you to use (although but moderately, not making a craft of them) are running, leaping, wrestling, fencing, dancing, and playing at the catch or tennis, archery, palle maillé, and such like other fair and pleasant field-games.

And the honourablest and most commendable games that ye can use, are on horseback : for it becometh a Prince best of any man, to be a fair and good horseman. Use therefore to ride and danton great and courageous horses ; that I may say of you as Philip said of great Alexander his son, Μακεδονία οὐ σe χωρεî.

And specially use such games on horseback, as may teach you to handle your arms thereon ; such as the tilt, the ring, and low riding for handling of your sword.

I cannot omit here the hunting, namely with running hounds, which is the most honourable and noblest sort thereof ; for it is a thievish form of hunting to shoot with guns and bows ; and greyhound hunting is not so martial a game. But because I would not be thought a partial praiser of this sport, I remit you to Xenophon, an old and famous writer, who had no mind of flattering you or me in this purpose, and who also setteth down a fair pattern for the education of a young king, under the supposed name of Cyrus,

As for hawking I condemn it not, but I must praise it more sparingly, because it neither resemblth the wars so near as hunting doth, in making a man hardy, and skilfully ridden in all grounds, and is more uncertain and subject to mischances ; and (which is worst of all) is therethrough an extreme stirrer up of passions. But in using either of these games, observe that moderation, that ye slip not therewith the hours appointed for your affairs, which ye ought ever precisely to keep ; remembering that these games are but ordained for you, in enabling you for the office, for which ye are ordained.

(From Basilikon Doron.)

TOBACCO AND GOOD MANNERS

AND for the vanities committed by this filthy custom, is it not both great vanity and uncleanness, that at the table, a place of respect, of cleanliness, of modesty, men should not be ashamed, to sit tossing of tobacco pipes and puffing of the smoke of tobacco one to another, making the filthy smoke and stink thereof, to exhale athwart the dishes, and infect the air, when very often men that abhor it are at their repast? Surely smoke becomes a kitchen far better than a dining chamber, and yet it makes a kitchen also oftentimes in the inward parts of men, soiling and infecting them with an unctuous and oily kind of soot, as hath been found in some great tobacco takers, that after their death were opened. And not only meale time, but no other time nor action is exempted from the public use of this uncivil trick : so as if the wives of Dieppe list to contest with this nation for good manners, their worst manners would in all reason be found at least not so dishonest (as ours are) in this point. The public use whereof, at all times, and in all places, hath now so far prevailed, as divers men very sound both in judgment and complexion hath been at last forced to take it also without desire, partly because they were ashamed to seem singular (like the two philosophers that were forced to duck themselves in that rain water and so become fools as well as the rest of the people), and partly to be as one that was content to eat garlic (which he did not love) that he might not be troubled with the smell of it in the breath of his fellows. And is it not a great vanity, that a man cannot heartily

welcome his friend now, but straight they must be in hand with tobacco? No, it is become in place of a cure, a point of good fellowship, and he that will refuse to take a pipe of tobacco among his fellows (though by his own election he would rather feel the savour of a sink) is accounted peevish and no good company, even as they do with tippling in the cold eastern countries. Yea the mistress cannot in a more mannerly kind entertain her servant, than by giving him out of her fair hand a pipe of tobacco. But herein is not only a great vanity, but a great contempt of God's good gifts, that the sweetness of man's breath, being a good gift of God, should be wilfully corrupted by this stinking smoke, wherein I must confess, it hath too strong a virtue; and so that which is an ornament of nature, and can neither by any artifice be at the first acquired, nor once lost be recovered again, shall be filthily corrupted with an incurable stink, which vile quality is as directly contrary to that wrong opinion which is holden of the wholesomeness thereof, as the renom of putrefaction is contrary to the virtue preservative.

Moreover, which is a great iniquity, and against all humanity, he husband shall not be ashamed to reduce thereby his delicate, wholesome, and clean complexioned wife to that extremity, that either she must also corrupt her sweet breath therewith, or else esolve to live in a perpetual stinking torment.

Have you not reason then to be ashamed, and to forbear this ilthy novelty, so basely grounded, so foolishly received, and so grossly mistaken in the right use thereof? In your abuse thereof inning against God, harming yourselves both in person andoods, and raking also thereby the marks and notes of vanity upon you; by the custom thereof making yourselves to be vondered at by all foreign civil nations, and by all strangers that ome upon you to be scorned and contemned : a custom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose, harmful to the brain, angerous to the lungs, and in the black stinking fume thereof, earest resembling the horrible Stygian smoke of the pit that is ottomless.

(From A Counterblast to Tobacco.)

JOHN SPOTTISWOODE

[Spottiswoode was born of a good Scottish stock in 1565, seven years before Knox's death. He was educated at Glasgow University, and succeeded his father as minister of Calder in West Lothian. In 1601-2, as chaplain to the Duke of Lennox, he visited the French and English Courts. On the accession of James VI. to the throne of England he accompanied the king to his new capital, and was sent back to Scotland as Archbishop of Glasgow. He became Archbishop of St. Andrews in 1615, and Lord High Chancellor of Scotland in 1635. He was a favourite with both James VI. and Charles I., and wrote his History of the Church of Scotland (first published in 1665) at the instigation of the former monarch. He died in 1639, and is buried in Westminster Abbey.]

"In Scotland," says Lord Clarendon, speaking of the time of James VI. and I., "though there were bishops in name, the whole jurisdiction and they themselves were subject to an Assembly which was purely presbyterian : no form of religion in practice, no liturgy, nor the least appearance of any beauty of holiness." Spottiswoode was one of the prelates who found themselves in this unfortunate position, against which his life and his works were one constant protest. He seems to have been rather a counter than a player in the game between priest and presbyter which in Scotland preluded the Great Rebellion, and it was his fate, like Clarendon's, to record the contest from the standpoint of the losing side. But his History of the Church of Scotland is all the more valuable on that account. A successful party never wants defenders, and posterity is too ready to condemn a failure. Spottiswoode's History enables us to appreciate the royal policy as it presented itself to a man, not indeed of high genius, but gifted with sufficient insight to make his record both interesting and instructive.

Spottiswoode was bred in the atmosphere of authority. A sentence from his will sums up the tenor of his writings :— "Touching the government of the Church, I am very per-

suaded that the government Episcopal is the only right and

apostolic form. Parity among ministers is the breeder of con-

fusion, as experience might have taught us ; and for these ruling

elders, as they are a mere human device, so will they prove, if

they find way, the ruin both of Church and State." "No bishop,

no king," was for him the final expression of the truth upon

questions of government ; and it is evident that the state of mind

which, accepting the axiom, could carry it without flinching to

one of its logical conclusions, a Republic, was to him quite

incomprehensible. "James Melville," he says, "lost the king's

favour and so made himself unprofitable to the Church." That

subjects may lawfully rise and take the sword out of the king's

hand is "a most execrable doctrine." King James was "the

Solomon of this age." Among his ancestors "during 1400 years"

on the Scottish throne-"If a careless or dissolute king (which

in so long a succession of princes is not to be wondered) happened

to reign, the same was abundantly repaired by one or other of

the kings that followed."

Enough has been said to illustrate the temper in which

Spottiswoode wrote. But if he was a courtier, he had all the

graces, and far more than the virtues, of the Court. It is

natural to compare his work with that of Knox. Readers will

declare for or against the sentiments of either according to their

prepossessions. In energy, in narrative power, and in the

general impression of genius produced, the earlier writer must be

pronounced by far the superior. Spottiswoode's merits are of a

different order. His style is smooth, but seldom strikes any

high note. There is no display of enthusiasm ; the reader is

rarely warmed into strong approval or censure ; the tone is

that of gentlemanly compromise or bland remonstrance. The

really notable point about the book is the breadth of its charity.

In this Christian virtue it must be acknowledged that the earlier

Scottish Reformers were sadly deficient. Knox was most in-

tolerant of opposition. Spottiswoode, in the whole of his History,

has not a bitter word for foe or friend, unless it be one about

Andrew Melville, who had indeed been a sore thorn in His

Grace's flesh.

James Miller Dodds,

THE EXECUTION OF QUEEN MARY

After this, she [Queen Mary] was brought to the hall, in the midst whereof, over against the chimney (where was a great fire), a scaffold was erected of two feet high and twelve feet broad, having two steps to ascend : the scaffold was railed about almost a yard high, and all covered with black cloth, as were the chair, stools, and block, and cushions to kneel upon. Before she went up, turning to the earls, she requested that her servants might stand by at her death. They answered, that their passionate weeping would disquiet her, and do no good else. "Nay," said she, "I will promise for them, they shall not do so: it is but a small favour, and such as Queen Elizabeth would not deny me, to have my maids present." She named Melvill her steward, Burgoin her physician, her apothecary and chirugeon, with two maids.

Being on the scaffold and silence made, the clerk of the council did read the commission, which she listened to as it had been some other matter. That ended, the dean of Peterborough began to remember her of her present condition, and to comfort her in the best sort he could. She, interrupting his speech, willed him to hold his peace, for that she would not hear him. And when, excusing himself that what he did was by command of her majesty's council, he began again to speak,—"Peace, Mr Dean," said she; "I have nothing to do with you, nor you with me." The noblemen desiring him not to trouble her further, she said, "That is best, for I am settled in the ancient Catholic religion wherein I was born and bred, and now will die in the same." The earl of Kent saying, that as yet they would not cease to pray unto God for her; that He would vouchsafe to open her eyes, and enlighten her mind with the knowledge of His truth, that she might die therein, she answered, "That you may do at your pleasure, but I will pray by myself." So the dean conceiving a

prayer, and all the company following him, she likewise prayed aloud in the Latin tongue : and when the dean had finished, she, in the English language, commended unto God the estate of His afflicted Church ; prayed for her son, that he might prosper and live happily, and for Queen Elizabeth, that she might live long and govern her subjects peaceably ; adding, that she hoped only to be saved by the blood of Christ, at the feet of Whose picture presented on the crucifix she would willingly shed her blood.

Then, lifting up the crucifix and kissing it, she said, "As Thy arms, O Christ, were spread abroad on the cross ; so with the outstretched arms of Thy mercy receive me, and forgive me my sins."

This said she rose up, and was by two of her women disrobed of her upper garments. The executioners offering their help, and putting to their hands, she put them back, saying, "She was not accustomed to be served with such grooms, nor dressed before such a multitude." Her upper robe taken off, she did quickly loose her doublet, which was laced on the back, and putting on her arms a pair of silken sleeves, her body covered with a smock only, she kissed her maids again, and bade them farewell. They bursting forth in tears, she said, "I promised for you that you should be quiet ; get you hence, and remember me." After which, kneeling down most resolutely, and with the least token of fear that might be, having her eyes covered with a handkerchief, she repeated the Psalm, In te, Domine, confido; ne confundar in æternum.

Then stretching forth her body with great quietness, and laying her neck over the block, she cried aloud, In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum. One of the executioners holding down her hands, the other at two blows cut off her head, which falling out of her attire seemed to be somewhat gray. All things about her were taken from the executioners, and they not suffered to carry their aprons, or anything else with them that her blood had touched ; the clothes and block were also burned, her body embalmed, and in solemn manner buried in the cathedral church at Peterborough ; and after many years taken up by the king her son, and interred at Westminster amongst the rest of the kings.

This was the end of Queen Mary's life ; a princess of many rare virtues, but crossed with all the crosses of fortune, which never any did bear with greater courage and magnanimity to the last. Upon her return from France, for the first two or three

years, she carried herself most worthily; but then giving ear to

some wicked persons, and transported with the passion of revenge

for the indignity done unto her in the murder of David Rizzio, her

secretary, she fell into a labyrinth of troubles, which forced her

to flee into England, where, after nineteen years' captivity, she

was put to death in the manner you have heard.

(From the History of the Church of Scotland.)

THE ADVENTURES OF MR. JOHN CRAIG

In the end of the year (1600) Mr. John Craig, that had been

minister to the king, but through age was compelled to quit the

charge, departed this life. This man whilst he lived was held in

good esteem, a great divine and excellent preacher, of a grave

behaviour, sincere, inclining to no faction, and, which increased

his reputation, living honestly, without ostentation or desire of

outward glory. Many tossings and troubles he endured in his

time; for being left young and his father killed at Flodden, after

he had got an entrance in letters and passed his course in

philosophy in St. Andrews, he went to England, and waited as

pedagogue on the Lord Dacres his children, the space of two years.

Wars then arising betwixt the two realms, he returned home,

and became one of the Dominican order; but had not lived long

among them when, upon suspicion of heresy, he was put in prison.

Being cleared of that imputation, he went back again into

England, and thinking by the Lord Dacres' means to have got a

place in Cambridge, because that failed, he went to France, and

from thence to Rome. There he found such favour with Cardinal

Pole, as by his recommendation he was received among the

Dominicans of Bononia, and by them first appointed to instruct

the novices of the cloister: afterwards, when they perceived his

diligence and dexterity in businesses, he was employed in all their

affairs throughout Italy, and sent in commission to Chios, an isle

situated in the Ionic sea, to redress things that were amiss

amongst those of their order.

Therein he discharged himself so well, that at his return he

was made rector of the school, and thereby had access to the

libraries, especially to that of the Inquisition; where falling on

the Institutions of John Calvin, he was taken with a great liking

thereof, and one day conferring with a reverend old man of the monastery, was by him confirmed in the opinion he had taken, but withal warned in any case not to utter himself, or make his mind known, because the times were perilous. Yet he, neglecting the counsel of the aged man, and venting his opinions too freely, was delated of heresy, and being sent to Rome, after examination imprisoned. Nine months he lay there in great misery; at the end whereof, being brought before the judge of the Inquisition, and giving a clear confession of his faith, he was condemned to be burnt the next day, which was the nineteenth of August.

It happened the same night Pope Paul the Fourth to depart this life; upon the noise of whose death the people came in a tumult to the place where his statue in marble had been erected, and pulling it down, did for the space of three days drag the same through the streets, and in the end threw it in the river of Tiber. During the tumult all the prisons were broken open, the prisoners set free, and among those Mr. Craig had his liberty. As he sought to escape (for he held it not safe to stay in the city), two things happened unto him not unworthy of relation. First, in the suburbs, as he was passing, he did meet a sort of loose men, whom they called banditti ; one of the company, taking him aside, demanded if he had been at any time in Bononia. He answered that he had been some time there. Do you not then remember, said he, that walking on a time in the fields with some young noblemen, there came unto you a poor maimed soldier, entreating some relief? Mr. Craig replying that he did not well remember. But I do, said he, and I am the man to whom you showed kindness at that time: be not afraid of us, ye shall incur no danger. And so conveying him through the suburbs, and showing what was his safest course, he gave him so much money as might make his charge to Bononia, for he intended to go thither, trusting to find some kindness with those of his acquaintance ; yet at his coming he found them look strange, and fearing to be of new trapped, he slipped away secretly, taking his course to Milan.

By the way another accident befell him, which I should scarce relate, so incredible it seemeth, if to many of good place he himself had not often repeated it as a singular testimony of God's care of him, and this it was. When he had travelled some days, declining the highways out of fear, he came into a forest, a wild and desert place, and being sore wearied lay down among some

bushes on the side of a little brook to refresh himself. Lying there pensive and full of thoughts (for neither knew he in what part he was, nor had he any means to bear him out the way), a dog cometh fawning with a purse in his teeth, and lays it down before him. He stricken with a fear riseth up, and looking about if any were coming that way, when he saw none, taketh it up, and construing the same to proceed from God's favourable providence towards him, followed his way till he came to a little village, where he met with some that were travelling to Vienna in Austria, and changing his intended course went in their company thither.

Being there, and professing himself one of the Dominican order, he was brought to preach before Maximilian the Second, who, liking the man and his manner of teaching, would have retained him, if by letters from Pope Pius the Third he had not been required to send him back to Rome, as one that was condemned for heresy. The emperor not liking to deliver him, and on the other part not willing to fall out with the Pope, did quietly dimit him with letters of safe conduct. So travelling through Germany he came to England, and being there informed of the Reformation begun at home, he returned into Scotland, and made offer of his service to the Church. But his long desuetude of the country language (which was not to be marvelled, considering that he had lived abroad the space of twenty-four years,) made him unuseful at first; now and then to the learneder sort he preached in Latin in the Magdalen's Chapel at Edinburgh, and in the year 1561, after he had recovered the language, was appointed minister at Halyrudhouse. The next year he was taken to Edinburgh, and served as colleague with Mr. Knox the space of nine years. Then by the ordinance of the Assembly he was translated to Montrose, where he continued two years, and upon the death of Adam Heriot was removed to Aberdeen, having the inspection of the Churches of Mar and Buchan committed to his care.

In the year 1579 he was called to be the King's minister, and served in that charge till, borne down with the weight of years, he was forced to retire himself. After which time, forbearing all public exercises, he lived private at home, comforting himself with the remembrance of the mercies of God that he had tasted in his life past; and this year, on the twelfth of December, without all pain died peaceably at Edinburgh in the eighty-eighth year of his age.

(From the Same.)

SIR HENRY WOTTON

[Born 9th April 1568, at Boughton Hall, in the Parish of Boughton, Malherbe, Kent ; educated at Winchester, and New and Queen's Colleges, Oxford ; travelled on the Continent from about 1590 to 1599, spending five of these years in Italy ; on his return attached himself to the Earl of Essex, whom he accompanied on two sea-voyages and on his Irish expedition ; on the discovery of Essex's plot secretly quitted the country for Italy ; about 1602 was, under the assumed name Octavio Baldi, admitted to an audience by James VI. at Stirling. After the accession of James I. he was three times sent ambassador to Venice, besides being charged with several diplomatic missions in Germany, including an embassy to the Emperor Ferdinand II., in the affairs of the dethroned Queen of Bohemia and her family. On his retirement in 1623 he was promised the reversion of the Mastership of the Rolls, but obtained the Provostship of Eton College. In 1627 he took deacon's orders. He died at Eton in December 1639.]

The roll of our notable prose writers, like that of our poets of genius, would be incomplete without the name of Sir Henry Wotton, which is illuminated by something beyond the afterglow of the great age to which, both by his nurture and by his sympathies, he belonged. For he represents more distinctly perhaps than any other of his contemporaries the militant Protestantism which counted for so much in the whole life of their age. Like Bacon, he formed part of the younger generation which passed from the service of the great Queen into that of her successor. Had it been morally possible for James I. to allow their counsels to determine permanently the balance of his judgment, European history might have taken a different course. But this by the way. What concerns us is the type which in Wotton is so cherished by Englishmen. Advanced Protestants in their religious views (for to call them Puritans would be a misnomer), these heroes of an unheroic age were, it must be confessed, unhampered by too nice a scrupulosity in their methods of political conduct, and well fitted to co-operate with the statesmen who enjoyed the confidence of Henry IV., or contributed

despatches to the Chancery of militant Calvinism in the Empire. Wotton, before he became a diplomatist himself and wrote despatches which lie outside our present range, and of which, for the rest, but few seem to have been preserved, took occasion to put forth a manifesto of his opinions which is certainly not lacking in plainness.

In his later days he advised a young aspirant in his profession always to tell the truth, more especially since nobody would ever believe it to be such. But the spirit of The State of Christendom, written shortly before the death of Queen Elizabeth, and the largest and most important of Wotton's extant prose writings, is that of a self-confident aggressiveness without arrière-pensées.

It opens with a plain statement that in the weary days of the author's foreign exile there had occurred to him, among other possible ways of bringing about his return, the notion of "murdering some notable traitor to his prince and country";

but that on second thoughts he had not carried out the scheme, as likely to entail upon him both danger and disquietude.

In the body of the essay he argues very audaciously, and at the same time very subtly, in defence of such disputable acts as the execution of Mary Queen of Scots and the murder of the Duke of Guise, but he is not less prepared to show cause why King Philip of Spain should be lawfully excommunicated and deposed, and dealt with accordingly.

An argument conducted in this practical fashion may serve to show that revolutions, such as were attempted in the state of Western Christendom alike by the Calvinist propaganda and by the Catholic reaction, are not made with rose-water; but no refinements of style could render it pleasant reading, and to these indeed it makes no pretence.

With this treatise should be compared Wotton's youthful letters to Lord Ford from Germany, which breathe the same defiant spirit. I have extracted from The State of Christendom part of an interesting passage on the relations between the King of Spain and "the Turk" of the period, in order to show the forcible directness of which Wotton was capable when he allowed his English Prose to remain unadorned by the quaint conceits and Italian phrases which abound in his "familiar" letters.

His chief attempt in the field of natural science, for which he always retained a keen interest, was in Latin, and the work of his Oxford days; but his treatise on The Elements of Architecture is in the vernacular, and to the full as readable as any modern pamphlet on house-decoration.

More ambitious in design, but, like nine-tenths of

his writings, only fragmentary in execution, is the Survey of

Education; or, Moral Architecture, which consists of aphorisms

and a preface, the latter interesting as seeking to place

education on its true, i.e. psychological, basis. The historical

pieces are similarly unfinished, unless we should except the not

very profound quasi-Plutarchian parallel between Essex and

Buckingham, and the servile panegyric "to" Charles I. This

king loved epigrams, and Wotton the making of them—witness

his famous definition of an ambassador, as sent to 'lie abroad,'

on behalf of his country—a witticism, wickedly published by

Scioppius several years after date. The panegyric contains a

more academic saying of which its author wished mention to be

made in his epitaph, thus "English" by Izaak Walton:

"Here lies the first author of this sentence :

'The itch of disputation will prove the scab of Churches.'

Inquire his name elsewhere."

We might well wish that he had, among his many designs,

carried out that of a Life of Luther, with a history of the German

Reformation ; for nobody better knew how to correlate a great

man and his times, and he had in him both enthusiasm and

humour enough to understand the genius of the great Reformer.

Wotton's own religious meditations have nothing specially

characteristic in them, but they breathe the fervent piety which

lends their deepest charm to his later letters, and which reveals

itself even in the chance expressions of so personal a "report" as

that which I have extracted from his letters to Sir Edmund

Bacon,—to my mind next to the Poems the pleasantest part of the

Reliquiae Wottonianae. It is necessary to turn to this varied

collection from Izaak Walton's delightful but imperfectly balanced

Life, which presents to us the Provost of Eton in his cloistered

retirement—a solitude of study and prayer—rather than the

enthusiastic "servant" of Elizabeth of Bohemia, the eager friend

of Father Paul, the courtier, the politician, and the wit. And

to those who are not content with a mere glance at Wotton's

prose, fragmentary as it is, most passages of his Remains will I

think suggest a combination of characteristics rare in the style

even of a highly cultivated writer, unless he is at the same time

a man of convictions rooted in principle and matured by experi-

ence.

A. W. WARD.

HOW TO MEET THE TURK

The Turk he (the Spanish king) knoweth to be a Prince greatly to be feared of all Christians, as well in regard of his great power, as in respect of his subtile policy. His power is terrible, becauše he armeth speedily, and that in such multitudes, as both the number and the expedition terrifieth all Christendom. For when he armeth, he most commonly bruiteth it abroad, that he meaneth to carry his Forces to one place, when indeed, he conveyeth them to another ; yea, and sometimes he sendeth Ambassadors to will them to be assured and out of all doubt, that he will not in any wise molest or trouble them, whom his full intent, purpose, and resolution is to invade upon a sudden.

Considering therefore his strength, his religion, his natural hatred against Christians, together with the continual emulation, quarrels, and contentions that are betwixt Christian princes, he holdeth it most convenient and necessary to have always a vigilant eye over such an adversary. For of Christian princes, he considereth who they be whom he most envieth, whose states he most longeth for, after whose dominions he most thirsteth, and unto which he hath best access, and easiest possibility to attain them. The House of Austria are his nearest kinsmen, and on one side, the next adjoining neighbours unto the Turkish territories. With them for kindred's sake he entertaineth perpetual amity, and is loth to offer them any occasion of discontentment because he knoweth that of late years they have not only possessed the Empire, but also been greatly favoured in Germany, with whose invincible power and puissance, they are both able and ready, when occasion shall be offered, to offend and defend the Turk. For it is their dominion unto which the Turk hath an especial eye, and an unsatiable desire, and by them and their means, Christian princes most annoy him ; because by the country of Hungary the way lieth open unto these regions, which he lately subdued; and a

Christian prince leading an army through the country against the Turk, may undoubtedly have good success against his forces, if he shall observe these conditions following :-

First. If in conducting his army he shall avoid and decline the wide plains, and come not near unto the river Danubius ; of the commodity whereof, the Turk by reason of his great courage, standeth always in need.

Secondly. If he shall not come nigh unto such places where the Turk may have convenient use of his horsemen and innumerable footmen ; with the excessive multitudes of which, he will easily oppress and suppress a Christian army, if they should chance to encounter in those plains.

Thirdly. If the Christian prince shall arm this year, and proceeding slowly on his journey not meet with the Turk, but fortify and strengthen such places as he shall get and conquer ; and the next year, when, as the Turk neither is wont, nor can arm with the like number and quantity, proceed manfully ; for the Prince in thus doing, shall compel him to stand continually upon his guard, and always to entertain great and gross armies, which he should not be able to endure long ; or else enforce him to use such forces as might be more easily conquered, and so consequently drive him to change the accustomed course and custom of his wars, which would be as much as half a victory gotten against him.

Fourthly. If the Christians shall endeavour to draw him into some strait, and there with some warlike stratagem enforce him to a battle, and with a troop of well-ordered footmen, encounter his Janizaries, which he usually reserveth for some extremity, and some unknown and unusual exploit, drive them to the worst, or put them out of their array and order ; there is no doubt but with the strangeness thereof he might obtain a notable victory against him ; whose horsemen are most easily overthrown, because they are for the most part unarmed.

Fifthly. If he shall mark and observe when there is a mutiny, sedition, or secret dissension, disturbance, or discontentment betwixt the Turk and his subjects, and by all cunning and policy entertain the same, maintain the procurers and heads thereof, and in the very heat of their tumult be ready to invade them. For indeed, the especial means to weaken the Turk, is to assault him when he is otherwise busied in wars with the Sophi, or with any other enemies, or when his successors are at contention for the crown, or his people divided amongst themselves, or he did

lately receive some notable overthrow ; for he, tyrannising his

subjects in such manner as he doth, the least overthrow that can

be, must needs endanger his State greatly, because he feareth

that his own people will be ready to give entertainment, aid, and

succour unto any, by whom they may have certain hope to wind

their necks out of the yoke of that intolerable servitude which

they now suffer.

This is so true, that it is credibly affirmed by the best warriors

of our age : that if the Christians had proceeded with their in-

vincible navy, when Don John de Austria gave the Turk the

famous overthrow (for which all Christendom greatly rejoiced)

they might haply have gotten Constantinople, and have recovered

most part of the Turkish dominion.

(From The State of Christendom.)

TO SIR EDMUND BACON

O (MY most dear nephew, for so I still glory to call you, while

Heaven possesseth her who bound us in that relation) how have

I of late after many vexations of a fastidious infirmity, been at

once rent in pieces by hearing that you were at London ; what ?

said I, and must it be at a time when I cannot fly thither to have

my wonted part of that conversation ; wherein all that know him

enjoy such infinite contentment ? Thus much did suddenly break

loose from the heart that doth truly honour you. And now (Sir)

let me tell you both how it hath gone with me, and how I stand

at the present. There is a triple health. Health of body, of

mind, and of fortune ; you shall have a short account of all three.

For the first : it is now almost an whole cycle of the sun, since

after certain fits of a quotidian fever, I was assailed by that

splenetlc passion, which a country good fellow that had been a

piece of a grammarian meant, when he said, he was sick of the

flatus, and the other hard word, for hypochondriacus stuck in his

teeth ; it is the very Proteus of all maladies ; shifting into sundry

shapes, almost every night a new, and yet still the same ; neither

can I hope that it will end in a solar period ; being such a satu-

rine humour ; but though the core and root of it be remaining,

yet the symptoms (I thank my God) are well allayed, and in

general I have found it of more contumacy than malignity ; only

since the late cold weather, there is complicated with it a more

asthmatical straightness of respiration than heretofore; yet those about me say I bear it well, as perchance custom hath taught

me, being now familiarised and domesticated evils, in the tragedian's expression : Jam mansueta mala. And thus much of the habit

of my body. On the other side : my mind is in a right philosophical state of health ; that is, at an equal distance both from

desire and hope ; and ambitious of nothing, but of doing nothing and of being nothing ; yet I have some employment of my thoughts

to keep them from mouldering, as you shall know before I close this letter. But first, touching the third kind of health.

My condition or fortune was never better, than in this good Lord Treasurer's time ; the very reverse of his proud predecessor, that

made a scorn of my poverty, and a sport of my modesty ; leaving me in a bad case ; and the world, so as though we now know by

what arts he lived, yet are we ignorant to this hour by what religion he died, save only that it could not be good, which was

not worthy the professing. This free passage let me commit to your noble breast, remembering that in confidence of the receiver,

I have transgressed a late counsel of mine own which I gave to a young friend, who asking me casually of what he should make

him a suit, as he was passing this way towards London ; I told him that in my opinion, he could not buy a cheaper nor a more

lasting stuff there than silence. For I loved him well, and was afraid of a little freedom that I spied in him. And now, Sir, I

must needs conclude (or I shall burst) with letting you know, that I have divers things in wild sheets that think and struggle to

get out of several kinds, some long promised, and some of a newer conception ; but a poor exercise of my pen (wherewith I shall

only honour myself by the dedication thereof unto your own person) is that which shall lead the way by mine and your good

leave, intending (if God yield me his favour) to print it before it be long in Oxford, and to send you thence, or bring you a copy

to our Redgrave. What the subject is you must not know beforehand, for I fear it will want all other grace, if it lose virginity.

And so the Lord of all abundant joy keep you long, con quella buona Ciera, which this my servant did relate unto me,

Who live, at all your commands,

HENRY WOTTON.

From your College,

this Ashwednesday, 1637. (From Reliquiae Wottonianæ.)

VOL. II

G

JOHN DONNE

[John Donne was born in London in 1573, his father being a tradesman or merchant of means, his mother a daughter of Heywood the epigrammatist, and a relation of Sir Thomas More. He was brought up in a Roman Catholic circle, if not actually as a Roman Catholic ; but was admitted at Hart Hall, Oxford. Perhaps (for Walton could hardly be wrong here, though later biographers doubt) he was also entered at Cambridge. He travelled, and became a member of Lincoln's Inn in 1592, now definitely casting in his lot with the English Church ; but it was long before he took orders. He went the Cadiz voyage in 1596, and on his return became a member of the household of Lord Keeper Egerton. Here he fell in love with and clandestinely married Anne More or Moore, a connexion of the Lord Keeper's wife. Her father, Sir George, was very angry, and procured Donne's dismissal and imprisonment ; but this difficulty blew over. Donne would apparently have chosen lay preferment, but, though he was a favourite with James the First, none came, and at length, in 1615, he took orders. The king made him his chaplain, and he received several livings and the readership of Lincoln's Inn. His wife, whom he idolised, died in 1617, and his heart seems to have been broken : his appointment to the Deanery of St. Paul's in 1621 making no change in the ascetic and mystical tincture which his life and thought had taken. He held his post ten years, and died on the 31st March 1631. Of his various poems nothing need be said here, and, indeed, few of them were published during his life. His first published work was prose--a treatise entitled Pseudo Martyr--written at the king's desire to reconcile Roman Catholics to the oath of allegiance (1610). He also wrote essays, "devotions," and miscellaneous tractates, of which the chief, not published till after his death, was a paradox on suicide, entitled Biathanatos. But his principal work in prose is composed of sermons which fall but little short of the second hundred in number. It is unlucky that the only full edition of his works, that of Alford in 1839, is not complete, and is very badly done.]

THE characteristics of Donne's voluminous and now little read prose are not on the whole very different from those of his strange and frequently exquisite but far less voluminous and better known verse. The differences, indeed, are little more than might be expected to be caused by the variation of subject and the advance of years. If he seldom, in prose, reaches the highest efforts of

his unique imagination in verse, the removal of the restraints of verse frees his prose for the most part from the extreme obscurity and the labyrinthine conceit of his poetry. The latter traits appear chiefly in his Letters. These are sometimes charming, and they often display the wit with which Coleridge (in the modern sense rather than that in which the word was used of Donne by his own contemporaries) credits him. But elsewhere they are far from clear, and the forlorn condition, dateless and of uncertain address, in which we sometimes have them, aggravates their difficulty. The chief fault of the Sermons is again different. There are magnificent passages in them, but these passages are too often brief, and hardly separable from the context. They sometimes contain the germ of much more elaborate things written subsequently; for instance, one of Jeremy Taylor's most celebrated pieces-that on the fragility of human life and health -is little more than an amplification of Donne. But something of the same want of perfect command of his wide learning, his profound thought, his soaring imagination, which mars the Poems, appears likewise in the Sermons. It is sometimes rather hard for the modern reader to discern what Donne, in modern phrase, is " driving at"; and the same reader is apt to be teased and annoyed by the perpetual running accompaniment of Protestant and Papist controversy, natural and indeed inevitable in the time and circumstances, but too omnipresent, and yet not sufficiently raised to the great scale. The learning also, like the imagination, may seem not sufficiently under control.

But the saving grace of Donne, in prose as in poetry, is the strength and savour of his quality, in the strict sense of the word. In this quality he has no rival in English; no rival, I think, anywhere except in the author of the Confessions. Donne, indeed, and St. Augustine stand almost alone in the temper of thought and sentiment which a youth of passion followed by a middle age of devotion has impressed upon them, and which utters itself perpetually in their style. Even the translators of the Confessions have not been able entirely to obliterate the tone of mingled asceticism and regret for things quite other than ascetic which echoes from page after page of the original; and this same tone is found in Donne, heightened and deepened during his later days to an almost unearthly pitch by the death of his wife and the bodily feebleness which seems to have come on him. Many who know little else about him know the strange fancy which caused

him to have his portrait painted coffined and shrouded, as well as Walton's description of the famous last sermon, from which an extract is given below. But this same sentiment or mixture of sentiments pervades his work as an undertone even where it does not come to the surface. It is a tone which, in a younger man, or less constantly maintained in less voluminous work by a man of equal experience of life, might arouse a strong suspicion of insincerity. But such a suspicion would be utterly out of place in the case of Donne.

In the minor particular of quaintness he is more on a par with others of his time; but here also he excels them. Even the most careless reader must note in him expressions of a racy oddity not surpassed by Fuller or Burton, by Glanville or Browne. "False and fashionable Christians"; "ragefully"; "Who would be loth to sink by being over freighted with God, or loth to overset by having so much of that wind the breath of the Spirit of God." These are but specimens of the things that meet the mere turner-over of the Sermons passim and without the trouble of minute attention. A little, but a very little, more may be required to do justice to the extraordinary profundity of Donne's thought, and the accuracy of his observations of human nature, such as that given in our last extract, which might be taken as a motto describing the "sin or mental disease which in the Middle Ages men called "accidia." "In a dark sadness indifferent things seem abominable or necessary, being neither; as trees and sheep to melancholy night-walkers have unproper shapes." But the most careful reading will be the best repaid by discoveries of this sort. And before long the reader will perceive, everywhere rising from the page, and expressed in it with a power extremely rare in prose, and not very common even in poetry, that mood which has been already referred to:—a mood in which the memory of bygone earthly delights blends inextricably with the present fervour of devotion, and which to a fancy resembling his own might suggest a temple of Aphrodite or Dionysus turned into a Christian church, and served by the same priest as of old, with complete loyalty to his new faith, but with undying consciousness of the past.

GEORGE SAINTSBURY.

OCCASIONAL MERCIES

If I should declare what God hath done (done occasionally,) for my soul, where He instructed me for fear of falling, where He raised me when I was fallen, perchance you would rather fix your thoughts upon my illness, and wonder at that, than at God's goodness, and glorify Him in that ; rather wonder at my sins than at His mercies, rather consider how ill a man I was, than how good a God He is. If I should enquire upon what occasion God elected me, and writ my name in the book of life, I should sooner be afraid that it were not so, than find a reason why it should be so. God made sun and moon to distinguish seasons, and day and night, and we cannot have the fruits of the earth but in their seasons ; but God hath made no decree to distinguish the seasons of His mercies ; in Paradise, the fruits were ripe the first minute, and in Heaven it is always autumn, His mercies are ever in their maturity. We ask our daily bread, and God never says you should have come yesterday. He never says you must again to-morrow, but to-day if ye will hear His voice, to-day He will hear you. If some king of the earth have so large an extent of dominion in north and south, as that he hath winter and summer together in his dominions, so large an extent east and west as that he hath day and night together in his dominions, much more hath God mercy and judgment together ; He brought light out of darkness, not out of a lesser light ; He can bring thy summer out of winter, though thou have no spring ; though in the ways of fortune, or understanding, or conscience, thou have been benighted till now, wintred and frozen, clouded and eclipsed, damped and benumbed, smothered and stupified till now, now God comes to thee, not as in the dawning of the day, not as in the bud of the spring, but as the sun at noon, to illustrate all shadows, as the sheaves in harvest, to fill all penuries, all occasions invite His mercies, and all times are His seasons.

(From Sermons preached on Christmas Day.)

JOHN DONNE

87

SALVATION

HERE then salvation is eternal salvation; not the outward

seals of the church upon the person, not visible sacraments, nor

the outward seal of the person to the church, visible works, nor

the inward seal of the Spirit, assurance here, but fruition, posses-

sion of glory, in the kingdom of heaven; where we shall be

infinitely rich, and that without labour in getting, or care in

keeping, or fear in losing; and fully wise, and that without ignor-

ance of necessary, or study of unnecessary knowledge, where we

shall not measure our portion by acres, for all heaven shall be all

ours; nor our term by years, for it is life and everlasting life;

nor our assurance by precedent, for we shall be safer than

the angels themselves were in the creation; where our exaltation

shall be to have a crown of righteousness, and our possession of

that crown shall be, even the throwing it down at the feet of the

Lamb; where we shall leave off all those petitions of Advent

regnum, Thy kingdom come, for it shall be come in abundant

power; and the Da nobis hodie, Give us this day our daily bread,

for we shall have all that which we can desire now, and shall have

a power to desire more, and then have that desire so enlarged,

satisfied; and the Libera nos, we shall not pray to be delivered

from evil, for no evil, culpa or pœna, either of sin to deserve

punishment, or of punishment for our former sins, shall offer at us:

where we shall see God face to face, for we shall have such notions

and apprehensions as shall enable us' to see him, and he shall

afford such an imparting, such a manifestation of himself, as he

shall be seen by us; and where we shall be as inseparably united

to our Saviour, as His humanity and divinity are united together;

this unspeakable, this unimaginable happiness is this salvation,

and therefore let us be glad when this is brought near us.

And this is brought nearer and nearer unto us, as we come

nearer and nearer to our end. As he that travels weary, and late

towards a great city, is glad when he comes to a place of execution,

because he knows that is near the town: so when thou comest to

the gate of death, glad of that, for it is but one step from that to

thy Jerusalem. Christ hath brought us in some nearness to

salvation, as he is vere Salvator mundi, in that we know, that this

is indeed the Christ, the Saviour of the world: and He hath

brought it nearer than that, as he is Salvator corporis sui, in that we know that Christ is the head of the church, and the Saviour of that body : and nearer than that, as he is Salvator tuus Sanctus, in that we know, he is the Lord our God, the Holy One of Israel, our Saviour : but nearest of all, in the Ecce Salvator tuus venit, Behold thy salvation cometh. It is not only promised in the prophets, nor only writ in the Gospel, nor only sealed in the sacraments, nor only prepared in the visitations of the Holy Ghost, but, ecce, behold it, now, when thou canst behold nothing else : the sun is setting to thee, and that for ever ; thy houses and furniture, thy gardens and orchards, thy titles and offices, thy wife and children are departing from thee, and that for ever ; a cloud of faintness is come over thine eyes, and a cloud of sorrow over all theirs ; when his hand that loves thee best hangs tremblingly over thee to close thine eyes ecce Salvator tuus venit, behold then a new light, thy Saviour's hand shall open thine eyes, and in His light thou shalt see light ; and thus shalt see, that though in the eyes of men thou lie upon that bed, as a statue on a tomb, yet in the eyes of God, thou standest as a colossus, one foot in one, another in another land ; one foot in the grave, but the other in heaven ; one hand in the womb of the earth, and the other in Abraham's bosom ; and then vere prope, salvation is truly near thee, and nearer than when thou believedst, which is our last word.

(From Sermon to the Prince and Princess Palatine.)

THE ARITHMETIC OF SIN

THE pureness and cleanness of heart which we must love, was evidently represented in the old law, and in the practice of the Jews, who took knowledge of so many uncleannesses ; they reckon almost fifty sorts of uncleannesses, to which there belonged particular expiations ; of which, some were hardly to be avoided in ordinary conversation : as to enter into the courts of justice ; for the Jews that led Christ into the common hall, would not enter, lest they should be defiled. Yea, some things defiled them, which it had been unnatural to have left undone ; as for the son to assist at his father's funeral ; and yet even these required an expiation ; for these, though they had not the nature of sin, but might be expiated (without any inward sorrow or repentance) by outward

ablutions, by ceremonial washings, within a certain time prescribed by the law, yet if that time were negligently and inconsiderately overslipped, then they became sins, and then they could not be expiated, but by a more solemn, and a more costly way, by sacrifice.

And even before they came to that, whilst they were but uncleannesses and not sins, yet even then they made them incapable of eating the Paschal Lamb.

So careful was God in the law, and the Jews in their practice (for these outward things) to preserve this pureness, this cleanness, even in things which were not fully sins.

So also must he that affects this pureness of heart, and studies the preserving of it, sweep down every cobweb that hangs about it.

Scurrile and obscene language: yea, misinterpretable words, such as may bear an ill sense; pleasureable conversation and all such little entanglings, which though he think too weak to hold him, yet they foul him.

And let him that is subject to these smaller sins, remember, that as a spider builds always where he knows there is most access and haunt of flies, so the devil that hath cast these light cobwebs into thy heart, knows that that heart is made of vanities and levities;

and he that gathers into his treasure whatsoever thou wastest out of thine, how negligent soever thou be, he keeps thy reckoning exactly, and will produce against thee at last as many lascivious glances as shall make up an adultery, as many covetous wishes as shall make up a robbery, as many angry words as shall make up a murder;

and thou shalt have dropped and crumbled away thy soul, with as much irrecoverableness, as if thou hadst poured it out all at once;

and thy merry sins, thy laughing sins, shall grow to be crying sins, even in the ears of God;

and though thou drown thy soul here, drop after drop, it shall not burn spark after spark, but have all the fire, and all at once, and all eternally, in one entire and intense torment.

For, as God, for our capacity, is content to be described as one of us, and to take our passions upon Him, and be called angry, and sorry, and the like;

so is He in this also like us, that He takes it worse to be slighted, to be neglected, to be left out, than to be actually injured.

Our inconsideration, our not thinking of God in our actions, offends him more than our sins.

We know, that in nature, and in art, the strongest bodies are compact of the least particles, because they shut best, and lie closest together;

so be the strongest habits of sin compact of sins which in themselves are least;

because they are least perceived, they grow upon us insensibly, and they cleave unto us inseparably.

And I should

make no doubt of recovering him sooner that had sinned long against his conscience, though in a great sin, than him that had sinned less sins, without any sense or conscience of those sins ; for I should sooner bring the other to a detestation of his sin, than bring this man to a knowledge, that that he did was sin.

But if thou couldst consider that every sin is a crucifying of Christ, and every sin is a precipitation of thyself from a pinnacle : were it a convenient phrase to say, in every little sin, that thou wouldst crucify Christ a little, or break thy neck a little.

(From Sermon to the Lords of the Council.)

DEATH

Now this which is so singularly peculiar to him, that His flesh should not see corruption, at His second coming, His coming to judgment, shall be extended to all that are then alive, their flesh shall not see corruption ; because (as the apostle says, and says as a secret, as a mystery, Behold I show you a mystery; we shall not all sleep) that is, not continue in the state of the dead, in the grave ; but we shall all be changed.

In an instant we shall have a dissolution, and in the same instant a reintegration, a recompacting of body and soul ; and that shall be truly a death, and truly a resurrection, but no sleeping, no corruption.

But for us, who die now, and sleep in the state of the dead, we must all pass this posthume death, this death after death, nay this death after burial, this dissolution after dissolution, this death of corruption and putrefaction, of vermiculation and incineration, of dissolution and dispersion, in, and from the grave.

When those bodies which have been the children of royal parents, and the parents of royal children, must say with Job, To corruption, Thou art my father, and to the worm, Thou art my mother and my sister.

Miserable riddle, when the same worm must be my mother, and my sister, and myself.

Miserable incest, when I must be married to mine own mother and sister, and be both father and mother, to mine own mother and sister, beget and bear that worm, which is all that miserable penury, when my mouth shall be filled with dust, and the worm shall feed, and feed sweetly upon me.

When the ambitious man shall have no satisfaction if the poorest alive read upon him, nor the poorest receive any contentment, in

being made equal to princes, for they shall be equal but in dust.

One dieth at his full strength, being wholly at ease, and in quiet,

and another dies in the bitterness of his soul, and never eats with

pleasure; but they lie down alike in the dust, and the worm

covers them. The worm covers them in Job, and in Esay, it

covers them, and is spread under them, (the worm is spread

under thee, and the worm covers thee). There is the mats and

the carpet that lie under; and there is the state and the canopy

that hangs over the greatest sons of men. Even those bodies

that were the temples of the Holy Ghost, come to this dilapidation,

to ruin, to rubbish, to dust: even the Israel of the Lord, and

Jacob himself had no other specification, no other denomination

but that, Vermis Jacob, Thou worm Jacob. Truly, the considera-

tion of this posthume death, this death after burial, that after

God, with whom are the issues of death, hath delivered me from

the death of the womb, by bringing me into the world, and from

the manifold deaths of the world, by laying me in the grave, I

must die again, in an incineration of this flesh, and in a dispersion

of that dust; that all that monarch that spread over many nations

alive, must in his dust lie in a corner of that shect of lead, and

there but so long as the lead will last: and that private and

retired man, that thought himself his own for ever, and never

came forth, must in his dust of the grave be published, and (such

are the revolutions of graves) be mingled in his dust, with the

dust of every highway, and of every dunghill, and swallowed in

every puddle and pond; this is the most inglorious and con-

temptible vilification, the most deadly and peremptory nullification

of man, that we can consider. God seems to have carried the

declaration of His power to a great height, when He sets the

prophet Ezekiel in the valley of dry bones, and says, Son of man,

can these bones live? as though it had been impossible; and yet

they did; the Lord laid sinews upon them, and flesh, and breathed

into them, and they did live. But in that case there were bones

to be seen: something visible, of which it might be said, Can

this, this live? but in this death of incineration and dispersion of

dust, we see nothing that we can call that man's. If we say,

Can this dust live? perchance it cannot. It may be the mere

dust of the earth which never did live, nor shall; it may be the

dust of that man's worms which did live, but shall no more; it

may be the dust of another man that concerns not him of whom

it is asked. This death of incineration and dispersion is to

natural reason the most irrevocable death of all; and yet Domini Domini sunt exitus mortis, Unto God the Lord belong the issues of death, and by recompacting this dust into the same body, and re-animating the same body with the same soul, He shall in a blessed and glorious resurrection give me such an issue from this death, as shall never pass into any other death, but establish me in a life, that shall last as long as the Lord of life himself.

(From Donne's Last Sermon.)

TO MY VERY TRUE AND VERY GOOD FRIEND, SIR HENRY GOODYERE

Sir—At some later reading, I was more affected with that part of your letter, which is of the book, and the nameless letters, than at first. I am not sorry, for that affection were for a jealousy or suspicion of a flexibility in you. But I am angry, that any should think you had in your religion peccant humours, defective, or abundant, or that such a book (if I mistake it not) should be able to work upon you ; my comfort is, that their judgment is too weak to endanger you, since by this it confesses, that it mistakes you in thinking you irresolved or various ; yet let me be bold to fear that that sound true opinion, that in all Christian professions there is way to salvation (which I think you think) may have been so incommodiously or intempestively sometimes uttered by you ; or else your having friends equally near you of all the impressions of religion, may have testified such an indiffer-

ence, as hath occasioned some to further such inclinations, as they have mistaken to be in you. This I have feared, because heretofore the inobedient puritans, and now the over-obedient papists, attempt you. It hath hurt very many, not in their conscience, nor ends, but in their reputation, and ways, that others have thought them fit to be wrought upon. As some bodies are as wholesomely nourished as ours, with acorns, and endure nakedness, both which would be dangerous to us, if we for them should leave our former habits, though theirs were the primitive diet and custom ; so are many souls well fed with such forms, and dress-

ings of religion, as would distemper and misbecome us, and make us corrupt towards God, if any human circumstance moved it and in the opinion of men, though none. You shall seldom

see a coin, upon which the stamp were removed, though to imprint

it better, but it looks awry and squint. And so, for the most

part, do minds which have received divers impressions. I will

not, nor need to you, compare the religions. The channels of

God's mercies run through both fields; and they are sister teats

of His graces, yet both diseased and infected, but not both alike.

And I think, that as Copernicism in the mathematics hath carried

earth farther up, from the stupid centre; and yet not honoured

it, nor advantaged it, because for the necessity of appearances, it

hath carried heaven so much higher from it: so the Roman

profession seems to exhale, and refine our wills from earthly

drugs, and lees, more than the reformed, and so seems to bring

us nearer heaven; but then that carries heaven farther from us,

by making us pass so many courts, and offices of saints in this

life, in all our petitions, and lying in a painful prison in the next,

during the pleasure, not of Him to whom we go, and who must be

our Judge, but of them from whom we come, who know not our

case.

Sir, as I said last time, labour to keep your alacrity and

dignity in an even temper; for in a dark sadness, indifferent

things seem abominable, or necessary, being neither; as trees,

and sheep, to melancholy night-walkers, have unproper shapes.

And when you descend to satisfy all men in your own religion, or

to excuse others to all: you prostitute yourself and your under-

standing, though not a prey, yet a mark, and a hope, and a

subject, for every sophister in religion to work on. For the

other part of your letter, spent in the praise of the countess,

I am always very apt to believe it of her, and can never believe it so

well, and so reasonably, as now, when it is averred by you; but

for the expressing it to her, in that sort as you seem to counsel,

I have these two reasons to decline it. That that knowledge which

she hath of me, was in the beginning of a graver course, than of

a poet, into which (that I may also keep my dignity) I would not

seem to relapse. The Spanish proverb informs me that he is a

fool which cannot make one sonnet, and he is mad which makes

two. The other stronger reason is my integrity to the other

countess, of whose worthiness, though I swallowed your opinion

at first upon your words, yet I have had since an explicit faith,

and now a knowledge: and for her delight (since she descends

to them) I had reserved not only all the verses, which I should

make, but all the thoughts of women's worthiness. But because

I hope she will not disdain, that I should write well of her picture,

I have obeyed you thus far, as to write : but entreat you by your

friendship that by this occasion of versifying, I be not traduced,

nor esteemed light in that tribe, and that house where I have

lived. If those reasons which moved you to bid me write be not

constant in you still, or if you meant not that I should write

verses : or if these verses be too bad, or too good, over or under

her understanding, and not fit ; I pray receive them, as a com-

panion and supplement of this letter to you ; and as such a token

as I use to send, which use, because I wish rather they should

serve (except you wish otherwise) I send no other : but after I

have told you, that here at a christening at Peckham, you are

remembered by divers of ours, and I commanded to tell you so, I

kiss your hands, and so seal to you my pure love, which I would

not refuse to do by any labour or danger.—Your very true friend

and servant,

J. DONNE.

BEN JONSON

[Born at Westminster in 1573 ; known as a playwright in or before 1597 ; finished his first extant play in the following year ; died 6th August 1637.]

APART from his dramatic prose, which, as he would readily have asseverated, "none but himself" could have produced, Ben is entitled to some sort of niche of his own among our prose writers. It may be going rather far to say, like his most recent biographer Dr. Herford, that "no other contemporary prose equals the Discoveries in ripe wisdom or sinewy vigour" ; for, whatever opinion may be held concerning the claims of aphoristic composition, Ben Jonson's only extant prose work (with all respect to the English Grammar) can hardly be said to belong to any other species. If it, more or less remotely, "approaches the type of the Baconian Essay," it savours far more noticeably of the qualities pervading the collectanea of Jonson's friend and master Camden, the scholar extolled by him for his skill and faith

"in things ;

[His] sight in searching the most antique springs."

Yet it would be a short-sighted exclusiveness which should altogether shut the doors of the temple of classic prose to the literature of annotations, albeit the contributions of so many dunces have swelled its total bulk. At all events we have no other prose (outside his plays and their paraphernalia) remaining from Ben Jonson's prolific pen. His English Grammar, patriotically designed

"To teach some that their nurses could not do, The purity of Language," —

was consumed, together with much else which posterity has more largely lamented, by the fatal conflagration commemorated in his genial Execration upon Vulcan; and only its dry bones or materials, including, however, an instructive series of quotations,

have come down to us. His unpublished translation of Barclay's

Argenis—that typical scholar's delight, the last book of which the

hand of Leibniz turned the pages—has likewise passed out of

reach.

But the Discoveries, which “contain matter” like everything

from their author's pen, will serve. They very evidently belong

to his declining years, when, though his creative powers were on

the wane, his critical faculty, in which he had stood supreme

among his fellows, was stronger and more conscious of its strength

than ever. With a great reverence for authority, such as that of

the ancients in literary matters, he combined a perfectly fearless

independence of thought and judgment; and while as full of

reading as he was of experience of life, he digested whatever he

read, and was no mere walking mirror of Fleet Street. Thus,

although the Discoveries contain little or nothing that is original

in the sense of being absolutely new, they fully justify their claim

to have “flowed out of his daily readings, or had their reflux

to his peculiar notion of the times.” It is the prerogative of a mind

so powerful, so well equipped and so well balanced as his, to be

able to form and express all its judgments in its own character,

and thus to stamp each of its criticisms with that other kind of

originality which renders them invariably interesting.

The complement of Ben Jonson's Discoveries is his so-called

Conversations with William Drummond of Hawthornden, as

reported by his host unextenuatingly, but presumably with a touch

here and there heightened, and a qualification here and there left

out. In these discourses, or heads of discourse, there are pas-

sages which once more irresistibly remind us of Jonson's great

later namesake, or rather (since it would be an error to regard

these Conversations as more than the merest rough notes of Ben's

actual talk) which suggest that the same versatility, the same pre-

cision, and the same force marked much of the spoken as well as

of the written criticism of both. Neither in the Devil Tavern nor

in the Mitre was the law laid down with a waste of words or with

a side-appeal to the audience; and it is this freedom of spirit,

born of self-knowledge and of good faith, to which both the one

and the other of these great critics owed their “dictatorships.”

Beyond a doubt, there are other passages in the Conversations,

as condensed by Drummond, perhaps after suffering from his

part of auditor tantum, which are mainly attributable to bile,

and resemble some of the incidental utterances of Carlyle,—

of Annandale stock like Ben. Such are the pronouncements :

" That Sharpham, Day, Dekker, were all rogues, and that Minsheu

was one." "That Abraham Fraunce, in his English Hexameters,

was a fool."

But of this there is nothing in the Discoveries, which are

marked by genuine sobriety of spirit as well as by a dignity of tone

which is not least noticeable in so personal a passage as the fine

reference to the poet's own career cited below. At the same time

the general style of these aphorisms, or notes for essays never

intended to be written, is quite unforced ; and we may perhaps

have reason to be glad that they were not over-elaborated for

publication.

A. W. WARD.

VOL. II

H

DE MALIGNITATE STUDENTIUM

THERE be some men are born only to suck out the poison of books : Habent venenum pro victu; iino, pro deliciis. And such are they that only relish the obscene and foul things in poets ; which makes the profession taxed. But by whom ? Men that watch for it ; and (had they not had this hint) are so unjust valuers of letters, as they think no learning good but what brings in gain. It shows they themselves would never have been of the professions they are, but for the profits and fees. But if another learning, well used, can instruct to good life, inform manners, no less persuade and lead men, than they threaten and compel, and have no reward : is it therefore the worse study ? I could never think the study of wisdom confined only to the philosopher ; or of piety to the divine ; or of state to the politic : but that he which can feign a commonwealth (which is the poet) can govern it with counsels, strengthen it with laws, correct it with judgments, inform it with religion and morals is all these. We do not require in him mere elocution, or an excellent faculty in verse, but the exact knowledge of all virtues, and their contraries, with ability to render the one loved, the other hated, by his proper embattling them. The philosophers did insolently, to challenge only to themselves that which the greatest generals and gravest counsellors never durst. For such had rather do, than promise the best things.

(From Timber : or, Discoveries made upon Men and Matter.)

DE BONIS ET MALIS.—DE INNOCENTIA

A GOOD man will avoid the spot of any sin. The very aspersion is grievous ; which makes him choose his way in his life, as he

would in his journey. The ill man rides through all confidently; he is coated and booted for it. The oftener he offends, the more openly; and the fouler, the fitter in fashion. His modesty, like a riding coat, the more it is worn, is the less cared for. It is good enough for the dirt still, and the ways he travels in. An innocent man needs no eloquence; his innocence is instead of it; else I had never come off so many times from these precipices, whither men's malice hath pursued me. It is true, I have been accused to the lords, to the king, and by great ones: but it happend my accusers had not thought of the accusation with themselves; and so were driven, for want of crimes, to use invention, which was found slander: or too late (being entered so far) to seek starting holes for their rashness, which were not given them. And then they may think what accusation that was like to prove, when they that were the engineers feared to be the authors. Nor were they content to feign things against me, but to urge things feigned by the ignorant against my profession; which though, from their hired and mercenary impudence, I might have passed by, as granted to a nation of barkers, that let out their tongues to lick others' sores; yet I durst not leave myself undefended, having a pair of ears unskilful to hear lies, or have those things said of me, which I could truly prove of them. They objected making of verses to me, when I could object to most of them, their not being able to read them, but as worthy of scorn. Nay, they would offer to urge mine own writings against me, but by pieces (which was an excellent way of malice): as if any man's context might not seem dangerous and offensive, if that which was knit to what went before were defrauded of his beginning; or that things by themselves uttered might not seem subject to calumny, which read entire, would appear most free. At last they upbraided my poverty: I confess she is my domestic; sober of diet, simple of habit, frugal, painful, a good counsellor to me, that keeps me from cruelty, pride, or other more delicate impertinences, which are the nurse-children of riches. But let them look over all the great and monstrous wickednesses, they shall never find those in poor families. They are the issue of the wealthy giants, and the mighty hunters: whereas no great work, or worthy of praise or memory, but came out of poor cradles. It was the ancient poverty that founded commonweals, built cities, invented arts, made wholesome laws, armed men against vices, rewarded them with their own virtues,

and preserved the honour and state of nations, till they betrayed themselves to riches.

(From the Same.)

NOTÆ DOMINI S. ALBANI DE DOCTRINÆ INTEMPERANTIA

IT was well noted by the late lord St. Alban, that the study of words is the first distemper of learning; vain matter the second; and a third distemper is deceit, or the likeness of truth; imposture held up by credulity. All these are the cobwebs of learning, and to let them grow in us is either sluttish, or foolish. Nothing is more ridiculous than to make an author a dictator, as the schools have done Aristotle. The damage is infinite knowledge receives by it; for to many things a man should owe but a temporary belief, and suspension of his own judgment, not an absolute resignation of himself, or a perpetual captivity. Let Aristotle and others have their dues; but if we can make farther discoveries of truth and fitness than they, why are we envied? Let us beware, while we strive to add, we do not diminish, or deface; we may improve, but not augment. By discrediting falsehood, truth grows in request. We must not go about, like men anguished and perplexed, for vicious affectation of praise; but calmly study the separation of opinions, find the errors have intervened, awake antiquity, call former times into question; but make no parties with the present, nor follow any fierce undertakers, mingle no matter of doubtful credit with the simplicity of truth, but gently stir the mould about the root of the question, and avoid all digladiations, facility of credit, or superstitious simplicity, seek the consonancy and concatenation of truth; stoop only to point of necessity, and what leads to convenience.

Then make exact animadversion where style hath degenerated, where flourished and thrived in choiceness of phrase, round and clean composition of sentence, sweet falling of the clause, varying an illustration by tropes and figures, weight of matter, worth of subject, soundness of argument, life of invention, and depth of judgment. This is monte potiri, to get the hill; for no perfect discovery can be made upon a flat or a level.

(From the Same.)

SAMUEL PURCHAS

[Samuel Purchas (1577-1626) of St. John's College, Cambridge, some time " minister at Estwood in Essex," afterwards " parson of St. Martins, near Ludgate," wrote (1) Purchas, his Pilgrimage, or Relations of the World and the Religions observed in all Ages (1613), a careful abstract of histories of travel; (2) Purchas, his Pilgrim: Microcosmus, or the Historie of Man, relating the Wonders of his Generation, Vanities in his Degeneration, Necessity of His Regeneration (1619), a treatise the scope of which is sufficiently indicated by its title; (3) Purchas his Pilgrims (1625), a collection of voyages, including those left unprinted by Hakluyt.]

THE most important original work of Purchas is his Pilgrimage. In the Pilgrims, as in Hakluyt's voyages, the editor is editor and not author. Microcosmus is a discourse on the infirmities of the human estate, written with some liveliness, yet hardly escaping from the commonplaces of the subject. Purchas his Pilgrimage is a digest of all the accessible information about the inhabitants of different countries and their religions, a successful attempt to bring together and arrange in one large volume the most important observations of voyagers. As an original author, Purchas is more copious than Hakluyt; his style has little of Hakluyt's eloquence, but it is generally adequate to the matter. His industry was well bestowed in his History of Religions, and his desultory learning is not unworthy of the approval given by Selden in his preliminary Greek and Latin verses. Four lines of the book stand out from the rest :-

" In Xaindu did Cublai Can build a stately pallace, encompassing sixteen miles of plaine ground with a wall, wherein are fertile meddowes, pleasant springs, delightful streams, and all sorts of beasts of chase and game, and in the middest thereof a sumptuous house of pleasure."

The description of the Mount Amara of the " Abassin Kings " has also an accidental value, from the honour rendered to that mountain by the poets.

W. P. KER.

OF THE HILL AMARA AND THE RARITIES THEREIN

The hill Amara hath already been often mentioned, and nothing indeed in all Ethiopia more deserveth mention, whether we respect the natural site, or the employment thereof. Somewhat is written thereof by geographers, and historians, especially by Aluarez, whom we have chiefly followed in the former relations of this country, as an eye-witness of the most things reported; but neither they, nor he, have anything but by relation, seeing that he passed two days' journey along by the said hill, and that also had almost cost him his life. But John de Baltasar (saith our Friar) lived in the same a long time, and therein served Alexander which was afterwards emperor, and was often by commandment of the same man, when he was emperor, sent thither: out of his relations, Friar a Luys saith he hath borrowed that which here we offer you. And here we offer you no small favour to conduct you into, and about this place, where none may come but an Ethiopian, and that by express licence, under pain of leaving his hands, feet, and eyes behind, in price for his curiosity, and not much less is the danger of such as offer to escape from thence: Aluarez himself being an eye-witness of some such cruel executions inflicted for that offence. This hill is situate as the navel of that Ethiopian body, and centre of their empire, under the equinoctial line, where the sun may take his best view thereof, as not encounting in all his long journey with the like theatre, wherein the graces and muses are actors, no place more graced with nature's store, or furnished with such a storehouse of books, the sun himself so in love with the sight, that the first and last thing he vieweth in all those parts is this hill; and where antiquitie consecrated unto him a stately temple: the gods (if ye believe Homer, that they feasted in Ethiopia) could not there, nor in the world find a fitter place for entertainment, all of them

contributing their best store (if I may so speak) to the banquet,

Bacchus, Juno, Venus, Pomona, Ceres, and the rest, with store of

fruits, wholesome air, pleasant aspect and prospect; secured by

Mars, lest any sinister accident should interrupt their delights; if

his garrisons of soldiers were needful where nature had so strongly

fortified before; only Neptune with his ruder sea-deities and

Pluto with his black-guard of barking Cerberus, and the rest of

that dreadful train (whose unwelcome presence would trouble all

that are present) are all, save Charon, who attends on every

feast, yea now hath ferried away those supposed deities with him-

self, perpetually exiled from this place. Once, heaven and earth,

nature and industry, have all been corrivals to it, all presenting

their best presents, to make it of this so lovely presence, some

taking this for the place of our forefathers' paradise. And yet

though thus admired of others, as a paradise, it is made a prison

to some, on whom nature had bestowed the greatest freedom, if

their freedom had not been eclipsed with greatness, and though

goodly stars, yet by the sun's brightness are forced to hide their

light, when gross and earthly bodies are seen, their nobleness

making them prisoners, that one sun only may shine in that

Ethiopian throne.

It is situate in a great plain largely extending itself every way

without other hill in the same for the space of thirty leagues, the

form thereof round and circular, the height such, that it is a day's

work to ascend from the foot to the top; round about, the rock is

cut so smooth and even, without any unequal swellings, that it

seemeth to him that stands beneath, like a high wall, whereon the

heaven is as it were propped; and at the top it is over-hanged

with rocks, jutting forth of the sides the space of a mile, bearing

out like mushrooms, so that it is impossible to ascend it, or by

ramming with earth, battering with cannon, scaling or otherwise

to win it. It is above twenty leagues in circuit, compassed with a

wall on the top, well wrought, that neither man nor beast in chase

may fall down. The top is a plain field, only towards the south

is a rising hill, beautifying this plain, as it were with a watch-

tower, not serving alone to the eye, but yielding also a pleasant

spring which passeth through all that plain, paying his tributes to

every garden that will exact it, and making a lake, whence issueth

a river, which having from these tops espied Nilus, never leaves

seeking to find him, whom he cannot leave both to seek and find,

that by his direction and conveyance he may together with him

present himself before the father and great king of waters, the

sea. The way up to it is cut out within the rock, not with stairs,

but ascending by little and little that one may ride up with ease;

it hath also holes cut to let in light and at the foot of this

ascending place, a fair gate, with a Corpus du Guarde. Half way

up is a fair and spacious hall cut out of the same rock, with three

windows very large upwards: the ascent is about the length of a

lance and a half: and at the top is a gate with another guard.

The air above is wholesome and delectable; and they live there

very long, and without sickness. There are no cities on the top,

but palaces, standing by themselves, in number four and thirty,

spacious, sumptuous, and beautiful, where the princes of the

royal blood have their abode with their families. The soldiers

that guard the place dwell in tents.

There are two temples, built before the reign of the Queen of

Saba, one in honour of the sun, the other of the moon, the most

magnificent in all Ethiopia, which by Candace, when she was

converted to the Christian faith, were consecrated in the name of

the Holy Ghost, and of the Crosse. At that time (they tell)

Candace ascending with the eunuch (whose proper name was

Indica) to baptize all of the royal blood, which were there kept,

Zacharie the eldest of them, was in his baptism named Philip, in

remembrance of Philip's converting the eunuch, which caused all

the emperors to be called by that name, till John the Saint, who

would be called John, because he was crowned on St. John's day:

and while they were busy in that holy work of baptising the

princes, a dove in fiery form came flying with beams of light, and

lighted on the highest temple dedicated to the sun, whereupon

it was afterwards consecrated to the Holy Ghost by St. Matthew

the Apostle, when he preached in Ethiopia. These two temples

were after that given to the monastical knights of the military

order of Saint Anthony, by Philip the seventh, with two great and

spacious convents built for them. I should lose both you and my

self, if I should lead you into their sweet, flourishing, and

fruitful gardens, whereof there are store in this plain, curiously

made, and plentifully furnished with fruits both of Europe plants

there, as pears, pippins, and such like; and of their own, as

oranges, citrons, lemons, and the rest; cedars, palm-trees, with other

trees, and variety of herbs and flowers, to satisfy the sight, taste, and

scent. But I would entertain you, only with rarities, nowhere else to

be found: and such is the cubayo tree, pleasant beyond all compari-

SAMUEL PURCHAS

105

son in taste, and whereunto for the virtue is imputed the health

and long life of the inhabitants ; and the balm-tree, whereof there

is great store here : and hence it is thought the Queen of Saba

carried and gave to Solomon, who planted them in Judæa, from

whence they were transplanted at Cairo long after. The plenty

of grains and corn there growing, the charms of birds alluring

the ear with their warbling notes, and fixing the eyes on their

colours, jointly agreeing in beauty, by their disagreeing variety,

and other creatures that adorn this paradise, might make me glut

you (as sweet meats usually do) with too much store. Let us

therefore take view of some other things worthy our admiration in

this admired hill, taking the Friar for our guide, whose credit I

leave to your censure.

(From Purchas, His Pilgrimage.)

SIR THOMAS OVERBURY

[Sir Thomas Overbury (1581-1613) was the son of Nicholas Overbury,

a squire in Gloucestershire. After three years at Queen's College, Oxford,

where he took the degree of B. A., he travelled for some time on the Continent.

His introduction to the Court was doubtless due to Carr, who was, till close

upon Overbury's death, his most intimate and constant companion. In 1608

Overbury was knighted ; in the following year he visited France and the

Low Countries, and wrote his Observations Upon the State of the Seventeen

Provinces. On his return he was regarded as the most accomplished of

James's courtiers, and the wits and poets vied with each other in soliciting

his patronage. Ben Jonson, with whom he quarrelled afterwards, ascribes

in some complimentary verses the saving of wit and manners at Court to

Overbury's presence. In 1613, as "oracle of direction" to Carr, now

Lord Rochester, Overbury strongly opposed his friend's marriage with the

Countess of Essex, who had obtained a divorce with this purpose. The

countess in revenge secured his imprisonment in the Tower, where, after five

months of lingering suffering, he died of poison at the age of thirty-eight.

In 1616 Rochester (then Somerset) and his wife were found guilty of the

murder. Some contemporary records suggest that James I. was implicated.

It is possible that the pride and insolence of bearing with which one con-

temporary, Weldon, charges Overbury, may have made him enemies at

Court. But even this writer admits him to have been "a man of excellent

parts." Overbury's works, published after his death, gained an immense

popularity. His poem of The Wife, written, according to Overbury's father,

"to induce Viscount Rochester to make a better choice than of the divorced

Countess," appeared in 1614. To the second edition in the same year were

"added many witty Characters and conceited News, written by himself and

other learned gentlemen his friends." There are only twenty-one characters

in this issue. By the ninth impression in 1616 the number had swelled to

eighty. An excellent comparison of Theophrastus and his English followers—

Hall, Overbury, and Earle—is to be found in Mr. Jebb's introduction to his

edition of Theophrastus (Macm. 1870).]

Short sketches of character and manners form a feature of our

seventeenth-century literature. Over two hundred "characters,"

or books of characters, are said to have been published between

the years 1605 and 1700. Casaubon had published in 1592 a

Latin translation of Theophrastus. But though the Greek author

is taken as a model in some of these works, the main causes of

their prevalence are to be sought in the age itself. "There was,"

says Mr. Jebb, "in one particular, a rough analogy between the

literature of that century in England and the Greek literature of

the age of Theophrastus; both were marked by the reaction from

creating to analysing, and in both ethical analysis was a favourite

subject." Church and stage alike fostered a taste for these

character sketches. Of these the earliest of any importance—

Hall's Characterisms of Virtues and Vices (1608), which have an

avowedly didactic purpose—shows the tendency to ethical intro-

spection which Puritanism brought with it. Overbury's Characters,

which followed Hall's, take their cue rather from the comedy of

the time; they are framed pretty much after the model of the

descriptions of contemporary manners, that are occasionally to be

found in such plays as Cynthia's Revels. Hall's Characters

are illustrations for sermons; Overbury's, for the most part,

echo the wit and gossip of court and tavern. Further,

euphuism was a dialect specially adapted to personal criticism of

this kind. But while it lent itself to this taste, it at the same

time led off the writer from simple description into elaborate

comment. Hall, though following in the main the manner of

Theophrastus in giving characteristic anecdotes, is affected to

some extent by the prevalent taste for conceit and antithesis. In

Overbury it reaches its height. As a rule, illustrations are sacri-

ficed to make room for epithets; and even when he does illustrate

traits by examples, they are given neither simply nor concretely

enough to be effective. A comparison of one of Theophrastus'

characters—say, The Shameless Man—with An Affectate Traveller,

one of the best of Overbury's, will show how Overbury's wit is apt

to spoil his humour. The following is an average specimen

of his style, "A Dissembler is an essence needing a double

definition, for he is not that he appears. Unto the eye he is

pleasing, unto the ear not harsh, but unto the understanding

intricate, and full of windings: he is the prima materia, and his

intents give him form; he dyeth his means and his meaning into

two colours; he baits craft with humility, and his countenance is

the picture of the present disposition. He wins not by battery,

but undermining, and his rack is smoothing. He allures, is not

allured by his affections, for they are the brokers of his observa-

tion. He knows passion only by sufferance, and resisteth by

obeying. He makes his time an accountant to his memory, and

of the humours of men weaves a net for occasion : the inquisitor must look through his judgment, for to the eye only he is visible.

Overbury is constantly on the track of the ingenious. He places subtlety of words before subtlety of invention and characterisation ; the originality of the idea rarely justifies the novelty of its expression.

Many of the sketches, as A Sailor, A Tailor, and others, are little more than a succession of puns. Yet most are to some extent redeemed by a sentence or two.

" A Flatterer is the shadow of a fool." Of an Ignorant Glory-hunter: " He fesseth vices he is guiltless of, if they be in fashion." Of a Tinist: " He never praiseth any but before themselves or friends ; and mislikes no great man's actions during his life." Of a Good Woman: " Dishonesty never comes nearer than her ears, and then wonder stops it out, and saves virtue the labour. . . . She hath a content of her own, and so seeks not a husband, but finds him." This last portrait, which comes first in the collection, shows, like A Franklin and A Fair and Happy Milkmaid, a sincere appreciation of virtue ; but, as a rule, Overbury's style is more serviceable in satire.

Only a small proportion of Overbury's sketches are "characters" in the Theophrastian sense. Seven-eighths of them are descriptive of callings or professions rather than of moral qualities ; and the majority of these, again, seem portraits rather of individuals than of types.

The character given to an Old Man, or a Country Gentleman, is evidently coloured by personal animus. The writer, or writers, of An Apparitor, A Creditor, A Sergeant, and A Jailor had probably suffered at their hands.

There can be little doubt that A Tailor was drawn by a customer who could not pay his bill. Overbury is at his best in the portraiture of manners. He has not his successor Earle's sympathetic insight, nor does he attempt in his characters, as Earle does, a sober estimate of both sides.

This can be seen by comparing Earle's with Overbury's Flatterer, and Earle's Downright Scholar with Overbury's Mere Scholar. But Overbury has a quicker eye for small vagaries of behaviour, and for superficial oddities of character ; and he has a wider and more intimate experience to draw from.

His Characters are valuable as a reflection of the times. The courtier "in Paul's, with a pick-tooth in his hat, a capecloak and a long stocking" ; the button-maker of Amsterdam whose " zeal consists much in hanging his Bible in a Dutch button " ; the sailor whose " language is a new confusion, and all his thoughts new nations " ;

110

ENGLISH PROSE

the braggadocio Welshman who “prefers Owen Glendower before any of the nine worthies:” these and others serve to bring the age before the modern reader, and at times throw an interesting light upon the Elizabethan drama.

It is convenient to speak of the Characters as Overbury’s, but it must not be forgotten that he is mentioned on the title-page of every edition merely as joint-author. The method of their publication justifies the inference that Overbury wrote only a few of them. It is impossible, however, to say which are his, and which belong to the “other learned gentlemen, his friends.” The dialect and accent are much the same in all, though more pronounced in some. Some doublets occur, which seem as if they were rival exercises on the same theme. There are two portraits of A Mere Fellow of an House; and it is hard to distinguish between A Wise Man and A Noble Spirit. Some of the sketches have so little unity of purpose that they might be taken as the result of a game in which each of a company of wits had taken his turn. It may be fairly said of most of them that they served to their writers as butts for “taffeta phrases, silken terms precise.”

W. S. M’CORMICK.

AN AFFECTATE TRAVELLER

Is a speaking fashion ; he hath taken pains to be ridiculous, and hath seen more than he hath perceived. His attire speaks French or Italian, and his gait cries, Behold me. He censures all things by countenances, and shrugs, and speaks his own language with shame and lisping : he will choke, rather than confess beer good drink ; and his pick-tooth is a main part of his behaviour. He chooseth rather to be counted a spy, than not a politician ; and maintains his reputation by naming great men familiarly. He chooseth rather to tell lies, than not wonders, and talks with men singly : his discourse sounds big, but means nothing ; and his boy is bound to admire him howsoever. He comes still from great personages, but goes with mean. He takes occasion to show jewels given him in regard of his virtue, that were bought at S. Martin's ; and not long after having with a mountebank's method pronounced them worth thousands, impawneth them for a few shillings. Upon festival days he goes to court, and salutes without resaluting : at night in an ordinary he canvaseth the business in hand, and seems as conversant with all intents and plots as if he begot them. His extraordinary account of men is, first to tell them the ends of all matters of consequence, and then to borrow money of them ; he offereth courtesies, to show them, rather than himself, humble. He disdains all things above his reach, and preferreth all countries before his own. He imputeth his want and poverty to the ignorance of the time, not his own unworthiness ; and concludes his discourse with half a period, or a word, and leaves the rest to imagination. In a word, his religion is fashion, and both body and soul are governed by fame ; he loves most voices above truth.

(From The Characters.)

A MERE FELLOW OF AN HOUSE

HE is one whose hopes commonly exceed his fortunes, and whose mind soars above his purse. If he hath read Tacitus, Guicciardini, or Gallo-Belgicus, he contemns the late Lord Treasurer, for all the state-policy he had; and laughs to think what a fool he could make of Solomon, if he were now alive. He never wears new clothes, but against a commencement or a good time, and is commonly a degree behind the fashion. He hath sworn to see London once a year, though all his business be to see a play, walk a turn in Paul's, and observe the fashion. He thinks it a discredit to be out of debt, which he never likely clears, without resignation money. He will not leave his part he hath in the privilege over young gentlemen, in going bare to him, for the empire of Germany : he prays as heartily for a sealing as a cormorant doth for a dear year ; yet commonly he spends that revenue before he receives it.

At meals, he sits in as great state over his penny commons, as ever Vitellius did at his greatest banquet ; and takes great delight in comparing his fare to my Lord Mayor's. If he be a leader of a faction, he thinks himself greater than ever Cæsar was, or the Turk at this day is. And he had rather lose an inheritance than an office, when he stands for it. If he be to travel, he is longer furnishing himself for a five miles' journey, than a ship is rigging for a seven years' voyage. He is never more troubled, than when he is to maintain talk with a gentleman : wherein he commits more absurdities, than a clown in eating of an egg. He thinks himself as fine when he is in a clean band and a new pair of shoes, as any courtier doth, when he is first in a new-fashion. Lastly, he is one that respects no man in the University, and is respected by no man out of it.

(From the Same.)

A ROARING BOY

HIS life is a mere counterfeit patent : which nevertheless makes many a country justice tremble. Don Quixote's watermills are still Scotch bagpipes to him. He sends challenges by word of

mouth: for he protests (as he is a gentleman and a brother of

the sword) he can neither write nor read. He hath run through

divers parcels of land, and great houses, beside both the counters.

If any private quarrel happen among our great courtiers, he

proclaims the business, that's the word, the business; as if the

united forces of the Romish Catholics were making up for Germany.

He cheats young gulls that are newly come to town; and when

the keeper of the ordinary blames him for it, he answers him in

his own profession, that a woodcock must be pluckt ere he be

drest. He is a supervisor to brothels, and in them is a more

unlawful reformer of vice, than prentices on Shrove-Tuesday. He

loves his friend, as a councillor-at-law loves the velvet breeches

he was first made barrister in; he'll be sure to wear him thread-

bare ere he forsake him. He sleeps with a tobacco-pipe in's

mouth; and his first prayer i' th' morning is, he may remember

whom he fell out with overnight. Soldier he is none, for

he cannot distinguish between onion-seed and gunpowder: if he

have worn it in his hollow tooth for the toothache, and so come

to the knowledge of it, that's all. The tenure by which he holds

his means, is an estate at will; and that's borrowing. Land-lords

have but four quarter-days; but he three hundred and odd. He

keeps very good company; yet is a man of no reckoning: and

when he goes not drunk to bed, he is very sick next morning.

He commonly dies like Anacreon, with a grape in's throat; or

Hercules, with fire in's marrow. And I have heard of some (that

have scap't hanging) begged for anatomies; only to deter man

from taking tobacco.

(From the Same.)

A FRANKLIN

His outside is an ancient yeoman of England, though his inside

may give arms (with the best gentlemen) and ne'er see the herald.

There is no truer servant in the house than himself. Though he

be master, he says not to his servants, Go to field, but, Let us

go; and with his own eye, doth both fatten his flock, and set

forward all manner of husbandry. He is taught by nature to be

contented with a little; his own fold yields him both food and

raiment; he is pleas'd with any nourishment God sends, whilst

curious gluttony ransacks, as it were, Noah's Ark for food, only

VOL. II

to feed the riot of one meal. He is ne'er known to go to law ; understanding, to be law-bound among men, is like to be hide-bound among his beasts ; they thrive not under it : and that such men sleep as quietly, as if their pillows were stuft with lawyer's pen-knives. When he builds, no poor tenant's cottage hinders his prospect : they are indeed his alms-houses, though there be painted on them no such superscription : he never sits up late, but when he hunts the badger, the vow'd foe of the lambs : nor uses he any cruelty, but when he hunts the hare ; nor subtlety, but when he setteth snares for the snite, or pit-falls for the black-bird ; nor oppression, but when in the month of July, he goes to the next river, and shears his sheep. He allows of honest pastime, and thinks not the bones of the dead any thing bruised, or the worse for it, though the country lasses dance in the church-yard after evensong. Rock Monday, and the wake in summer, shrovings, the wakeful ketches on Christmas Eve, the hoky, or seed cake, these he yearly keeps, yet holds them no reliques of popery. He is not so inquisitive after news derived from the privy closet, when the finding an eyry of hawks in his own grounds, or the foaling of a colt come of a good strain, are tidings more pleasant, more profitable. He is lord paramount within himself, though he hold by never so mean a tenure ; and dies the more contentedly (though he leave his heir young) in regard he leaves him not liable to a covetous guardian. Lastly, to end him ; he cares not when his end comes, he needs not fear his audit, for his quietus is in heaven.

(From the Same.)

ROBERT BURTON

[Few books give a more distinct idea of the personality of their author than that given by the Anatomy of Melancholy. But the accounts which we have of that author and his history are somewhat meagre. He was born on 8th February 1577 at Lindley in Leicestershire, his family being of gentle birth and of some landed estate, and was educated at the grammar schools of Nun-eaton and Sutton Coldfield. He entered Brasenose College, Oxford, in 1593, and was elected on the foundation at Christ Church six years later. He took orders, and was presented by the Dean and Chapter to St. Thomas's, Oxford, in 1616, and later by Lord Berkeley to the rectory of Segrave in his native county. He constantly resided at Christ Church, but kept his livings till his death in 1640, a death which gossip, without any evidence, chose to consider self-helped, if not self-inflicted, partly because of his ambiguous epitaph, "cui vitam dedit et mortem melancholia," partly because he had calculated his nativity so as pretty exactly to forecast the time. It has been pointed out that he actually died at sixty-three—an age more usually fatal than any other. Despite his residence of full forty years in a single college, and of nearly half a century in the same university, almost nothing is known of him, and the few traditions or assertions about his melancholy, its occasional alleviations, his facility of quotation, and so forth, are vague, and in rather suspicious accordance with the notion which, as has been said, any one would form from his book.]

It is a commonplace that in the most absurd error there may generally be discovered, if not some considerable ground or background of truth, yet some fragment of explanation. There is such an explanation for the absurd craze which has induced its monomaniacs to include Robert Burton's work among those, dating from the last quarter of the sixteenth century and the first of the seventeenth, which they father upon Francis Bacon, or a secret society headed by him. To no one possessing one grain of critical power of separation could the work of Shakespeare, of Bacon, and of Burton seem to come from the same hand. But each stands apart from all his other contemporaries in a certain combination, different in each, of universality of comprehension, with intense individuality of expression. Burton's form of this

combination of gifts lay in the union of almost universal reading with the application of that reading to the setting forth and illustration of a peculiar temperament of mind—the temperament which is expressed by writers as ancient as the Preacher, and as modern as Schopenhauer. To dwell on the way in which, as far as matter goes, he deals with the subject of Melancholy would be here impossible. It is sufficient to say that he had read almost everything—classical, mediaeval, and modern, theology, science (as science then went), law, history, poetry. He will quote Ovid one moment and Chaucer the next, a schoolman on this page, and—rarest of all quotations to be found in his own contemporaries—a contemporary playwright on that. The whole is cast into the form of a scientific investigation of the causes, symptoms, varieties, and cure of what he calls Melancholy. But as the perfection) the investigation passes into, or is continually accompanied by, an endless chain of citation from his innumerable authors. Nor is the fashion of this citation less peculiar than its abundance. For the most part the borrowed passages are not given singly to support and illustrate single sentences or paragraphs of the author's own. They run on into endless series with each other, or are twisted in alternate strands with Burton's own writing. Sometimes his sentences read as if a string of references in a footnote had by some inadvertence cropped up in the text; often as if the clauses were written in shorthand—notes for the author's own use in future extension or selection. Now he will give the original of his version, or a paraphrase in a note; now he will quote his author in Latin or another tongue, and follow this up with a sort of half-gloss, half-version in English. To a careless reader, or to one quite out of sympathy with Burton's own mood, the method may seem either a cumbrous conglomeration, due to lack of taste, skill, and energy, or the lost labour of elaborate eccentricity. Not so to any one who takes the trouble to master Burton's own introduction, or who starts in harmony with the spirit of the book. If the Anatomy of Melancholy be regarded as mere outpouring of commonplace books, with a pretext of unity in purpose and subject, it is no great thing. To be understood it must be regarded as at once the exhibition of a temperament, and the discussion of a case.

Burton occupied rather more than twenty years, from the time of his election to a position of learned ease, in shaping

his book for its first appearance in 1621 : he spent rather less than another twenty in refashioning and perfecting the work. Frequently as it has been reprinted, no attempt has ever yet been made to execute a critical edition, indicating the variations which were thus introduced by him on the four occasions when reissues were called for in his own lifetime. These alterations and additions are very numerous and very considerable, and the author not unfrequently draws attention to them in the text. But he has never, in making them, broken through the singular unity and control of treatment which the book shows. As far as the minutiae of style are concerned, Burton's characteristics are well marked, and not very numerous. His method of quotation obliges him of necessity to immense sentences, or rather clause-heaps.

But it is noteworthy that when he intermitts citation and narrates or argues in his own person he is less, not more, given than his contemporaries to the long sentence, and frequently has a distinctly terse and crisp arrangement of the members of his paragraph. Of definite mannerisms he chiefly affects apposition, the omission of conjunctions and connecting words of all kinds, and a very curious and characteristic use of the demonstrative he and its cases, which covers with him a range of senses from "that well-known person" to "anybody."

These details of form, however, though adding to the fantastic personality of the book, are as nothing compared to the idiosyncrasies of its matter and spirit. Apt as Burton is to digress—indeed he has a formal defence of the practice—and enormous as is the range of his digression, he has contrived to make all this huge congeries of material subservient to his purpose of illustrating a new "vanity of vanities" of combining, as it were, in one book the knowledge of Solomon, and his reflections on the futility of the things known and the knowing of them.

Rigidly precise in appearance as is the scheme he lays out, its sweep and ramifications are so great and intricate that hardly anything introduced by him can be said to be absolutely irrelevant. He contrives to see all things in Melancholy, and yet to make his treatment of them anything but melancholic. Indeed with all his plunges in the balneum diaboli, all his love for quaint out-of-the-way knowledge, there is in Burton a strong vein of plain common-sense which is sometimes almost prosaic, in the transferred and uncomplimentary sense, and which emerges now and then, especially in his long and famous discourse of Love-melancholy.

His own verse translations, too, are such mere doggrel for the most part that one almost suspects a trick and deliberation. But there are few things, indeed, that deserve censure in Burton, the perpetual refuge and delight of scholarly English readers, an unmatched storehouse of learning, and one not easily matched for wisdom, a writer who, by force of genius, has turned into an organic whole the hugest and most apparently heterogeneous stock of materials that ever an architect of letters set himself to build withal.

George Saintsbury.

DEMOCRITUS HIS UTOPIA

Utopian parity is a kind of government, to be wished for, rather than effected, Respub. Christianopolitana, Campanella's City of the Sun, and that new Atlantis, witty fictions, but mere chimeras : and Plato's community in many things is impious, absurd, and ridiculous ; it takes away all splendour and magnificence. I will have several orders, degrees of nobility, and those hereditary, not rejecting younger brothers in the mean time ; for they shall be sufficiently provided for by pensions, or so qualified, brought up in some honest calling, they shall be able to live of themselves.

I will have such a proportion of ground belonging to every barony : he that buys the land, shall buy the barony ; he that by riot consumes his patrimony, and ancient demesnes, shall forfeit his honours. As some dignities shall be hereditary, so some again by election or gift (besides free offices, pensions, annuities) like our bishoprics, prebends, the Bassa's palaces in Turkey, the procurators' houses, and offices in Venice, which (like the golden apple) shall be given to the worthiest and best deserving both in war and peace, as a reward of their worth and good service, as so many goals for all to aim at (honos alit artes), and encouragements to others. For I hate those severe, unnatural, harsh, German, French, and Venetian decrees, which exclude plebeians from honours : be they never so wise, rich, virtuous, valiant, and well qualified, they must not be patricians, but keep their own rank : this is naturæ bellum inferre, odious to God and men ; I abhor it.

My form of government shall be monarchical ;

'. . . nunquam libertas gratior exstat, Quam sub rege pio,' etc.

few laws, but those severely kept, plainly put down, and in the mother tongue, that every man may understand. Every city shall have a peculiar trade or privilege, by which it shall be chiefly maintained : and parents shall teach their children (one

of three at least), bring up and instruct them in the mysteries of

their own trade. In each town these several tradesmen shall be

so aptly disposed as they shall free the rest from danger or

offence. Fire-trades, as smiths, forge-men, brewers, bakers, metal-

men, etc., shall dwell apart by themselves ; dyers, tanners, fel-

mongers, and such as use water, in convenient places by them-

selves : noisome or fulsome for bad smells, as butchers' slaughter-

houses, chandlers, curricrs, in remote places, and some back lanes.

Fraternities and companies I approve of, as merchants' burses,

colleges of druggers, physicians, musicians, etc., but all trades to

be rated in the sale of wares, as our clerks of the market do

bakers and brewers ; corn it self, what scarcity soever shall come,

not to exceed such a price. Of such wares as are transported or

brought in, if they be necessary, commodious, and such as nearly

concern man's life, as corn, wood, coal, etc., and such provision

we cannot want, I will have little or no custom paid, no taxes ;

but for such things as are for pleasure, delight, or ornament, as

wine, spice, tobacco, silk, velvet, cloth of gold, lace, jewels, etc.,

a greater impost. I will have certain ships sent out for new

discoveries every year, and some discreet men appointed to

travel into all neighbour kingdoms by land, which shall observe

what artificial inventions and good laws are in other countries,

customs, alterations, or ought else, concerning war, or peace,

which may tend to the common good ;-ecclesiastical discipline,

penes episcopos, subordinate as the other ; no impropriations, no

lay patrons of church livings, or one private man, but common

societies, corporations, etc., and those rectors of benefices to be

chosen out of the universities, examined and approved as the

literati in China. No parish to contain above a thousand

auditors. If it were possible, I would have such priests as

should imitate Christ, charitable lawyers should love their neigh-

bours as themselves, temperate and modest physicians, polititians

contemn the world, philosophers should know themselves, noble-

men live honestly, tradesmen leave lying and cozening, magistrates

corruption, etc. But this is impossible ; I must get such as I

may. I will therefore have of lawyers, judges, advocates,

physicians, chirurgions, etc., a set number ; and every man, if it

be possible, to plead his own cause, to tell that tale to the judge,

which he doth to his advocate, as at Fez in Africk, Bantam,

Aleppo, Raguse, suam quisque caussam dicere tenetur ;-those

advocates, chirurgions, and physicians, which are allowed to be

maintained out of the common treasure ; no fees to be given or taken, upon pain of losing their places ; or, if they do, very small fees, and when the cause is fully ended. He that sues any man shall put in a pledge, which if it be proved he hath wrongfully sued his adversary, rashly or maliciously, he shall forfeit and lose. Or else, before any suit

plaint approved by a set delegacy to that purpose : if it be of moment, he shall be suffered, as before, to proceed ; if otherwise, they shall determine it. All causes shall be pleaded suppresso nomine, the parties' names concealed, if some circumstances do not otherwise require. Judges and other officers shall be aptly disposed in each province, villages, cities, as common arbitrators

to hear causes, and end all controversies ; and those not single, but three at least on the bench at once, to determine or give sentence ; and those again to sit by turns or lots, and not to continue still in the same office. No controversy to depend above a year, but, without all delays and further appeals, to be speedily dispatched, and finally concluded in that time allotted.

These and all other inferior magistrates, to be chosen as the literati in China, or by those exact suffrages of the Venetians ; and such again not be eligible, or capable of magistracies, honours, offices, except they be sufficiently qualified for learning, manners, and that by the strict approbation of deputied examinators : first, scholars to take place, then, soldiers ; for I am of

Vegetius his opinion, a scholar deserves better than a soldier, because unius ætatis sunt quæ fortiter fiunt, quæ vero pro utilitate reipub. scribuntur, æterna : a soldier's work lasts for an age, a scholar's for ever. If they misbehave themselves, they shall be deposed, and accordingly punished ; and, whether their offices be annual or otherwise, once a year they shall be called in question, and give an account : for men are partial and passionate,

merciless, covetous, corrupt, subject to love, hate, fear, favour, etc., omne sub regno graviore regnum. Like Solon's Areopagites, or those Roman censors, some shall visit others, and be visited invicem themselves ; they shall oversee that no prowling officer, under colour of authority, shall insult over his inferiors, as so many wild beasts, oppress, domineer, flay, grind, or trample on,

be partial or corrupt, but that there be æquabile jus, justice equally done, live as friends and brethren together ; and (which Sesellius would have and so much desires in his kingdom of France) a diapason and sweet harmony of kings, princes, nobles,

and plebeians, so mutually tied and involved in love, as well as

laws and authority, as that they never disagree, insult, or incroach

one upon another. If any man deserve well in his office, he shall

be rewarded;

" . . . quis enim virtutem amplectitur ipsam,

Præmia si tollas? . . ."

He that invents any thing for public good in any art.or science,

writes a treatise, or performs any noble exploit at home or abroad,

shall be accordingly enriched, honoured, and preferred. I say,

with Hannibal in Ennius, Hostem qui feriet, mihi erit Carthagini-

ensis : let him be of what condition he will, in all offices, actions,

he that deserves best shall have best.

(From Democritus Junior to the Reader.)

LOVE OF SOLITUDE

COZEN german to idleness, and a concomitant cause which goes

hand in hand with it, is nimia solitudo, too much solitariness—

as it is here put for a cause, it is either coact, enforced, or else

voluntary. Enforced solitariness is commonly seen in students,

monks, friars, anchorites, that, by their order and course of life,

must abandon all company, society of other men, and betake

themselves to a private cell ; otiosuperstitioso secluse (as Bale

and Hospinian well term it), such as are the Carthusians of our

time, that eat no flesh (by their order), keep perpetual silence,

never go abroad ; such as live in prison, or some desert place,

and cannot have company, as many of our country gentlemen do

in solitary houses ; they must either be alone without companions,

or live beyond their means, and entertain all comers as so many

hosts, or else converse with their servants and hinds, such as are

unequal, inferior to them, and of a contrary disposition ; or else,

as some do, to avoid solitariness, spend their time with lewd

fellows in taverns, and in ale-houses, and thence addict themselves

to some unlawful disports, or dissolute courses. Divers again

are cast upon this rock of solitariness for want of means, or out

of a strong apprehension of some infirmity, disgrace ; or, through

bashfulness, rudeness, simplicity, they cannot apply themselves

to others' company. Nullum solum infelici gratias solitudine,

ubi nullus sit qui miseriam exprobet. This enforced solitariness

takes place, and produceth his effect soonest, in such as have

spent their time jovially, peradventure in all honest recreations,

in good company, in some great family or populous city, and are

upon a sudden confined to a desert country cottage far off, re-

strained of their liberty, and barred from their ordinary associates.

Solitariness is very irksome to such, most tedious, and a sudden

cause of great inconvenience.

Voluntary solitariness is that which is familiar with melancholy,

and gently brings on, like a Siren, a shooing-horn, or some

Sphinx, to this irrevocable gulf: a primary cause Piso calls it ;

most pleasant it is at first, to such as are melancholy given, to

lie in bed whole days, and keep their chambers, to walk alone in

some solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, by a brook side, to

meditate upon some delightsome and pleasant subject, which shall

affect them most ; amabilis insania, and mentis gratissimus error.

A most incomparable delight it is so to melancholize, and build

castles in the air, to go smiling to themselves, acting an infinite

variety of parts, which they suppose, and strongly imagine they

represent, or that they see acted or done. Blanda quidem ab

initio, saith Lemnius, to conceive and meditate of such pleasant

things sometimes, "present, past, or to come," as Rhasis speaks.

So delightsome these toys are at first, they could spend whole

days and nights without sleep, even whole years alone in such

contemplations, and phantastical meditations, which are like unto

dreams ; and they will hardly be drawn from them, or willingly

interrupt. So pleasant their vain conceits are, that they hinder

their ordinary tasks and necessary business ; they cannot address

themselves to them, or almost to any study or employment : these

phantastical and bewitching thoughts so covertly, so feelingly, so

urgently, so continually, set upon, creep in, insinuate, possess,

overcome, distract, and detain them, they cannot, I say, go about

their more necessary business, stave off or extricate themselves,

but are ever musing, melancholizing, and carried along, as he

(they say) that is led round about an heath with a Puck in the

night. They run earnestly on in this labyrinth of anxious and

solicitous melancholy meditations, and cannot well or willingly

refrain, or easily leave off, winding and unwinding themselves, as

so many clocks, and still pleasing their humours, until at last the

scene is turned upon a sudden, by some bad object ; and they,

being now habituated to such vain meditations and solitary places,

can endure no company, can ruminate of nothing but harsh and

distasteful subjects. Fear, sorrow, suspicion, subrusticus pudor,

discontent, cares, and weariness of life, surprise them in a moment;

and they can think of nothing else: continually suspecting, no

sooner are their eyes open, but this infernal plague of melancholy

seizeth on them, and terrifies their souls, representing some

dismal object to their minds, which now, by no means, no labour,

no persuasions, they can avoid; hæret lateri letalis arundo;

they may not be rid of it; they cannot resist. I may not deny but

that there is some profitable meditation, contemplation, and kind

of solitariness, to be embraced, which the fathers so highly com-

mended—Hierom, Chrysostom, Cyprian, Austin, in whole tracts,

which Petrarch, Erasmus, Stella, and others, so much magnify in

their books—a paradise, an heaven on earth, if it be used aright,

good for the body, and better for the soul; as many of those old

monks used it, to divine contemplations; as Simulus a courtier in

Adrian's time, Diocletian the emperor, retired themselves, etc., in

that sense, Vatia solus scit vivere; Vatia lives alone; which the

Romans were wont to say, when they commended a country life;

or to the bettering of their knowledge, as Democritus, Cleanthes,

and those excellent philosophers, have ever done, to sequester

themselves from the tumultuous world; or, as in Pliny's villa

Laurentana, Tully's Tusculan, Jovius' study, that they might

better vacare studiis et Deo, serve God and follow their studies.

Methinks, therefore, our too zealous innovators were not so well

advised in that general subversion of abbeys and religious houses,

promiscuously to fling down all. They might have taken away

those gross abuses crept in amongst them, rectified such incon-

veniencies, and not so far to have raved and raged against those

fair buildings, and everlasting monuments of our forefathers'

devotion, consecrated to pious uses. Some monasteries and

collegiate cells might have been well spared, and their revenues

otherwise employed; here and there one, in good towns or cities

at least, for men and women of all sorts and conditions to live in,

to sequester themselves from the cares and tumults of the world,

that were not desirous or fit to marry, or otherwise willing to be

troubled with common affairs, and know not well where to bestow

themselves, to live apart in, for more conveniency, good education,

better company sake; to follow their studies (I say) to the perfec-

tion of arts and sciences common good, and, as some truly

devoted monks of old had done, freely and truly to serve God : for these men are neither solitary, nor idle, as the poet made answer to the husbandman in Æsop, that objected idleness to him, he was never so idle as in his company ; or that Scipio Africanus in Tully, numquam minus solus, quam quum solus; numquam minus otiosus, quum quum esset otiosus; never less solitary, than when he was alone, never more busy, than when he seemed to be most idle. It is reported by Platō, in his dialogue de Amore, in that prodigious commendation of Socrates, how, a deep meditation coming into Socrates' mind by chance, he stood still musing, eodem vestigio cogitabundus, from morning to noon ; and, when as then he had not yet finished his meditation, perstabat cogitans; he so continued till the evening ; the soldiers (for he then followed the camp) observed him with admiration, and on set purpose watched all night ; but he persevered immoveable ad exortum solis, till the sun rose in the morning, and then, saluting the sun, went his ways. In what humour constant Socrates did thus, I know not, or how he might be affected ; but this would be pernicious to another man ; what intricate business might so really possess him, I cannot easily guess. But this is otiosum otium; it is far otherwise with these men, according to Seneca : omnia nobis mala solitudo persuadet; pugnât cum vitâ sociâli; 'tis a destructive solitariness. These men are devils, alone, as the saying is ; homo solus aut deus aut dæmon; a man, alone, is either a saint or a devil ; mens ejus aut languiscit, aut tumescit; and væ soli! in this sense ; woe be to him that is so alone ! These wretches do frequently degenerate from men, and, of sociable creatures, become beasts, monsters, inhumane, ugly to behold, misanthropi; they do even loathe themselves, and hate the company of men, as so many Timons, Nebuchadnezzars, by too much indulging to these pleasing humours, and through their own default. So that which Mercurialis (Consil. II.) sometimes expostulated with his melancholy patient, may be justly applied to every solitary and idle person in particular ; natura de te videtur conqueri posse, etc., nature may justly complain of thee, that, whereas she gave thee a good wholesome temperature, a sound body, and God hath given thee so divine and excellent a soul, so many good parts and profitable gifts, thou hast not only contemned and rejected, but hast corrupted them, polluted them, overthrown their temperature, and perverted those gifts with riot, idleness, solitariness, and many

other ways ; thou art a traitor to God and Nature, an enemy to

thy self and to the world. Perdition tua ex te; thou hast lost thy

self wilfully, cast away thy self; thou thy self art the efficient

cause of thine own misery, by not resisting such vain cogitations,

but giving way unto them.

(From the Causes of Melancholy.)

OF REPULSE

REPULSE and disgrace are two main causes of discontent, but, to

an understanding man, not so hardly to be taken. Cæsar him-

self hath been denied ; and when two stand equal in fortune,

birth, and all other qualities alike, one of necessity must lose. Why

shouldst thou take it so grievously ? It hath been a familiar

thing for thee thy self to deny others. If every man might have

what he would, we should all be deified, emperors, kings, princes ;

if whatsoever vain hope suggests, insatiable appetite affects, our

preposterous judgment thinks fit were granted, we should have

another chaos in an instant, a mere confusion. It is some satis-

faction to him that is repelled, that dignities, honours, offices, are

not always given by desert or worth, but for love, affinity, friend-

ship, affection, great men's letters, or as commonly they are

bought and sold. Honours in court are bestowed, not accord-

ing to men's virtues and good conditions (as an old courtier

observes) ; but, as every man hath means, or more potent friends,

so he is preferred. With us in France (for so their own

countryman relates) most part the matter is carried by favour

and grace ; he that can get a great man to be his mediator, runs

away with all the preferment. Indignissimus plerumque pro-

fertui, Vatinius Catoni, illandatus laudatissimo :

"servi dominantur; aselli

Ornariar phaleris ; detholcrantur equi."

An illiterate fool sits in a man's seat, and the common people

hold him learned, grave, and wise. One professeth (Cardan well

notes) for a thousand crowns ; but he deserves not ten ; when as

he that deserves a thousand cannot get ten. Salarium non dat

multis salem. As good horses draw in carts, as coaches ; and

oftentimes, which Machiavel seconds, principes non sunt, qui ob

insignem virtutem principatu digni sunt; he that is most worthy

wants employment ; he that hath skill to be a pilot wants a ship ;

and he that could govern a commonwealth, a world itself, a king

in conceit, wants means to exercise his worth, hath not a poor

office to manage. And yet all this while he is a better man than

is fit to reign, etsi careat regno, though he want a kingdom, than

he that hath one, and knows not how to rule it. A lion serves

not always his keeper, but oftentimes the keeper the lion ; and,

as Polydore Virgil hath it, multi reges, ut pupilli, ob inscitiam non

regunt, sed reguntur. Hieron of Syracuse was a brave king, but

wanted a kingdom ; Perseus of Macedon had nothing of a king

but the bare name and title ; for he could not govern it ; so great

places are often ill bestowed, worthy persons unrespected. Many

times too the servants have more means than the masters whom

they serve ; which Epictetus counts an eyesore and inconvenient.

But who can help it ? It is an ordinary thing in these days to

see a base impudent ass, illiterate, unworthy, unsufficient, to be

preferred before his betters, because he can put himself forward,

because he looks big, can bustle in the world, hath a fair outside,

can temporise, collogue, insinuate, or hath good store of friends

and money ; whereas a more discreet, modest, and better deserv-

ing man shall lie hid or have a repulse. 'Twas so of old, and ever

will be, and which Tiresias advised Ulysses in the poet—

"Accipe, qua ratione queas ditescere," etc.

is still in use ; lie, flatter, and dissemble ; if not, as he concludes,

"Ergo pauper eris,"

then go like a beggar, as thou art. Erasmus, Melancthon,

Lipsius, Budæus, Cardan, lived and died poor. Gesner was a

silly old man, baculo innixus, amongst all those huffing cardinals,

swelling bishops, that flourished in his time, and rode on foot-

clothes. It is not honesty, learning, worth, wisdom, that prefers

men (the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong),

but, as the wise man said, chance, and sometimes a ridiculous

chance : casus plerumque ridiculos multos elevavit. 'Tis fortune's

doings, as they say, which made Brutus now dying exclaim, O

misera virtus ! ergo nihil quam verba eras ! atqui ego te tanquam

rem exercebam; sed tu serviebas fortunæ. Believe it hereafter,

O my friends ! Virtue serves fortune. Yet be not discouraged

(O my well deserving spirits) with this which I have said ; it may

be otherwise ; though seldom, I confess, yet sometimes it is,

But, to your farther content, I'll tell you a tale. In Moronia

pia, or Moronia felix, I know not whether, nor how long since,

nor in what cathedral church, a fat prebend fell void. The car-

case scarce cold, many suitors were up in an instant. The first

had rich friends, a good purse; and he was resolved to outbid

any man before he would lose it; every man supposed he should

carry it. The second was my Lord Bishop's chaplain (in whose

gift it was); and he thought it his due to have it. The third was

nobly born; and he meant to get it by his great parents, patrons,

and allies. The fourth stood upon his worth; he had newly

found out strange mysteries in chemistry, and other rare inven-

tions, which he would detect to the public good. The fifth was

a painful preacher; and he was commended by the whole parish

where he dwelt; he had all their hands to his certificate. The

sixth was the prebendary's son lately deceased; his father died

in debt (for it, as they say), left a wife and many poor children.

The seventh stood upon fair promises, which to him and his

noble friends had been formerly made for the next place in his

lordship's gift. The eighth pretended great losses, and what he

had suffered for the church, what pains he had taken at home and

abroad; and besides he brought noble men's letters. The ninth

had married a kinswoman, and he sent his wife to sue for him.

The tenth was a foreign doctor, a late convert, and wanted means.

The eleventh would exchange for another; he did not like the

former's site, could not agree with his neighbours and fellows

upon any terms; he would be gone. The twelfth and last was

(a suitor in conceit) a right honest, civil, sober man, an excellent

scholar, and such a one as lived private in the university; but he

had neither means nor money to compass it; besides he hated

all such courses; he could not speak for himself, neither had he

any friends to solicit his cause, and therefore made no suit, could

not expect, neither did he hope for, or look after it. The good

bishop, amongst a jury of competitors, thus perplexed, and not

yet resolved what to do, or on whom to bestow it, at the last, of

his own accord, mere motion, and bountiful nature, gave it freely

to the university student, altogether unknown to him but by fame;

and, to be brief, the academical scholar had the prebend sent him

for a present. The news was no sooner published abroad, but

all good students rejoiced, and were much cheered up with it,

though some would not believe it; others, as men amazed, said

it was a miracle; but one amongst the rest thanked God for it,

and said, "Nunc juvat tandem studiosum esse, et Deo integro corde servire." You have heard my tale; but, alas! it is but a tale, a mere fiction; 'twas never so, never like to be; and so let it rest.

(From the Cure of Melancholy.)

CHARITY, THE WANT OF IT

A FAITHFUL friend is better than gold, a medicine of misery, an only possession; yet this love of friends, nuptial, heroical, profitable, pleasant, honest, all three loves put together, are little worth, if they proceed not from a true Christian illuminated soul, if it be not done in ordine ad Deum, for God's sake.

"Though I had the gift of prophecy, spake with tongues of men and angels, though I feed the poor with all my goods, give my body to be burned, and have not this love, it profiteth me nothing" (1 Cor. xiii. 1, 3); 'tis splendidum peccatum, without charity.

This is an all-apprehending love, a deifying love, a refined, pure, divine love, the quintessence of all love, the true philosopher's stone: non potest enim (as Austin infers) veraciter amicus esse hominis, nisi fuerit ipsius primitus veritatis: he is no true friend that loves not God's truth.

And therefore this is true love indeed, the cause of all good to mortal men, that reconciles all creatures, and glues them together in perpetual amity, and firm league, and can no more abide bitterness, hate, malice, than fair and foul weather, light and darkness, sterility and plenty, may be together.

As the sun in the firmament (I say), so is love in the world; and for this cause 'tis love without an addition, love καθ' έξοχήν, love of God, and love of men.

The love of God begets the love of man; and by this love of our neighbour, the love of God is nourished and increased.

By this happy union of love, all well governed families and cities are combined, the heavens annexed, and divine souls complicated, the world itself composed, and all that is in it conjoined in God, and reduced to one.

This love causeth true and absolute virtues, the life, spirit, and root of every virtuous action; it finisheth prosperity, easeth adversity, corrects all natural incumbrances, inconveniences, sustained by faith and hope, which, with this our love, make an indissoluble twist, a Gordian knot, an æquilateral triangle; and yet the greatest of them is love (1 Cor. xiii. 13) which inflames our souls with a

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divine heat, and being so inflamed, purgeth, and, so purged, elevates to God, makes an atonement, and reconciles us unto him.

That other love infects the soul of man ; this cleanseth : that depresses ; this erears : that causeth cares and troubles ; this quietness of mind ; this informs, that deforms our life : that leads to repentance, this to heaven.

For, if once we be truly link't and touched with this charity, we shall love God above all, our neighbour as ourself, as we are enjoined (Mark xii. 31 ; Matt. xix. 19), perform those duties and exercises, even all the operations of a good Christian.

This love suffereth long ; it is bountiful, envieth not, boasteth not itself ; is not puffed up : it deceiveth not ; it seeketh not his own things, is not provoked to anger ; it thinketh not evil ; it rejoiceth not in iniquity, but in truth.

It suffereth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things (1 Cor. xiii. 4, 5, 6, 7) ; it covereth all trespasses (Prov. x. 12), a multitude of sins (1 Peter iv. 8), as our Saviour told the woman in the Gospel, that washed His feet, many sins were forgiven her, for she loved much (Luke vii. 47) :

it will defend the fatherless and the widow (Isa. i. 17), will seek no revenge, or be mindful of wrong (Levit. xix. 18), will bring home his brother's ox if he go astray, as it is commanded (Deut. xxii. 1), will resist evil, give to him that asketh, and not turn from him that borroweth, bless them that curse him, love his enemies (Matt. v.), bear his brother's burthen (Gal. vi. 2).

He that so loves, will be hospitable, and distribute to the necessities of the saints : he will, if it be possible, have peace with all men, feed his enemy if he be hungry ; if he be athirst, give him drink ; he will perform those seven works of mercy ; he will make himself equal to them of the lower sort, rejoice with them that rejoice, weep with them that weep (Rom. xii. 15) :

he will speak truth to his neighbour, be courteous and tender hearted, forgiving others for Christ's sake, as God forgave him (Eph. iv. 32) ; he will be like minded (Phil. ii. 2), of one judgment ; be humble, meek, long suffering (Colos. iii. 12), forbear, forget, and forgive (13, 22) :

and what he doth shall be heartily done to God, and not to men : be pitiful and courteous (1 Peter iii. 8, 11), seek peace and follow it.

He will love his brother, not in word and tongue, but in deed and truth (1 John iii. 18) ; and he that loves God, Christ will love him that is begotten of him (1 John v. 1, etc.) Thus should we willingly do, if we had a true touch of this charity, of this divine love, if we would perform this which we

are enjoined, forget and forgive, and compose ourselves to those

Christian laws of love.

" O felix hominum genus,

Si vestros animos Amor,

Quo cœlum regitur, regat!"

Angelical souls, how blessed, how happy should we be, so loving,

how might we triumph over the devil, and have another heaven

upon earth !

But this we cannot do ; and, which is the cause of all our

woes, miseries, discontent, melancholy, want of this charity. We

do invicem angariarc, contemn, insult, vex, torture, molest, and

hold one another's noses to the grindstone hard, provoke, rail,

scoff, calumniate, challenge, hate, abuse (hard-hearted, implacable,

malicious, peevish, inexorable as we are), to satisfy our lust or

private spleen, for toys, trifles, and impertinent occasions, spend

our selves, goods, friends, fortunes, to be revenged on our adver-

sary, to ruin him and his. 'Tis all our study, practice, and

business, how to plot mischief, mine, countermine, defend and

offend, ward ourselves, injure others, hurt all ; as if we were born

to do mischief, and that with such eagerness and bitterness, with

such rancour, malice, rage, and fury, we prosecute our intended

designs, that neither affinity or consanguinity, love or fear of God

or men, can contain us : no satisfaction, no composition, will be

accepted, no offices will serve, no submission ; though he shall,

upon his knees, as Sarpedon did to Glaucus in Homer, acknow-

ledging his error, yield himself with tears in his eyes, beg his

pardon, we will not relent, forgive, or forget, till we have con-

founded him and his, "made dice of his bones," as they say, see

him rot in prison, banish his friends' followers, et omne invisum

genus, rooted him out, and all his posterity. Monsters of men

as we are, dogs, wolves, tigers, fiends, incarnate devils, we do

not only contend, oppress, and tyrannise ourselves, but, as so

many firebrands, we set on, and animate others : our whole life

is a perpetual combat, a conflict, a set battle, a snarling fit : Eris

Dea is settled in our tents : Omnia de lite, opposing wit to wit,

wealth to wealth, strength to strength, fortunes to fortunes, friends

to friends, as at a sea fight, we turn our broadsides, or two mill-

stones with continual attrition, we fire ourselves, or break

another's backs, and both are ruined and consumed in the end.

Miserable wretches ! to fat and enrich ourselves, we care not how

we get it: Quocunque modo rem: how many thousands we undo,

whom we oppress, by whose ruin and downfall we arise, whom we injure, fatherless children, widows, common societies, to satisfy our own private lust. Though we have myriads, abundance of wealth and treasure (pitiless, merciless, remorseless, and uncharitable in the highest degree) and our poor brother in need, sickness, in great extremity, and now ready to be starved for want of food, we had rather, as the fox told the ape, his tail should sweep the ground still, than cover his buttocks; rather spend it idly, consume it with dogs, hawks, hounds, unnecessary buildings, in riotous apparel, ingurgitate, or let it be lost, than he should have part of it ; rather take from him that little which he hath, than relieve him.

(From Love-Melancholy.)

BISHOP HALL

[Joseph Hall was born at Ashby-de-la-Zouch in 1574, educated at Emanuel College, Cambridge, and, after spending several years at the University, became Rector of Halsted, in Suffolk, in 1601. After travelling with Sir Edmund Bacon in the Low Countries, and having already given to the world his Satires (written in imitation of Persius) and his Meditations, he attracted the notice of Henry, Prince of Wales. From Halsted he was collated to Waltham, where he remained twenty-two years, during which he was more than once employed abroad, most notably as the representative of King James in the ecclesiastical contentions of the Netherlands. In 1608 he became involved in controversy with the Brownists: and this controversy served as a counterbias to the puritanical inclination, which for a time rendered him an object of some suspicion to the party of Archbishop Laud. In 1627 he became Bishop of Exeter; and his controversial faculty was still further sharpened by the Smectymnuus dispute as to the divine right of Episcopacy, in which he had Milton for one of his opponents. After the meeting of the Long Parliament, and the more violent steps taken against the Church, his position as defender of Episcopacy made him the object of bitter hatred on the part of the Parliamentary party. He was translated to the See of Norwich in 1641. But his time there was short and troubled. The most severe measures were dealt out to him by the victorious faction, whose theories he had combated. He was imprisoned and stript of all the temporalities of his see, and died in 1656, before the Restoration reversed the fate of the struggle.]

JOSEPH HALL's father was the agent and representative of the Earl of Huntingdon, and was thus in a position to secure for his son some patronage of the kind to which so many notable men of the time in Church and State were indebted for their University training. But Hall seems to have been most influenced by the character of his mother, whose portrait, which her son has painted in a few striking lines, gives us the impression of greater force than attractiveness. She emulated the famous women of antiquity in her sanctity, which had more than a tincture of puritanic gloom in its composition. Much of each day was spent in private devotion: "whence," says her son,

"she would still come forth, with a countenance of undesembled mortification." Other symptoms which he describes as proof of her indubitable piety, savour strongly of hypochondria; but gloomy as she must have made her surroundings, she undoubtedly retained a strong hold upon the reverence and affection of her son, and to her he doubtless owed that early puritanic leaning, which subsequent experience curved, but did not altogether eradicate.

From a home where the chief impression was one of sincere but gloomy and melancholy piety, Hall passed to the University of Cambridge, where he evidently acquired a position such as would nowadays be gained by one who secured the highest honours of the Schools. He was one of the teaching staff of his college; and his literary reputation, as the author of the Satires, must have given him some position and notoriety, although in his own reminiscences we hear nothing of these early efforts.

His later years were occupied with other fights, carried on with very different weapons; and as the Satires were cast up as a reproach to him by Milton in the Smectymnuus controversy, Hall found it neither convenient nor congenial to recall these youthful poems. Criticism of the Satires does not fall within the scope of the present notice; but they have much interest for any one who would appreciate Hall's later prose work. They are not only remarkable as the productions of a youth who was little past his majority (they were published in 1597), but they also link Hall with the literature of a previous generation. His compeers then were the last of the Elizabethan dramatists; the chief object of his admiration was Spenser. In language the Satires are artificially archaic: and the tone that pervades them has very little in common with the spirit of his later work. But they brought a freedom and a vigour to his prose style which it never lost, and the practice which they gave him in his early years not only added force and liveliness to his later controversial style, but also gave to his religious writings the quick movement, the variety and the lavish illustration, which are their chief characteristics.

Hall thus combined some elements which are rarely found in combination. Educated amongst puritanic influences and under the shadow of a religion that regarded each individual accident as brought about by the special intervention of providence; passing from this to the classical influences of the University, and finding his models in antiquity; thrusting himself as a youth

into the literary struggles of the day—he brought to his later work as a divine some unique qualities. His earliest religious writings are devout and earnest, but they borrow their illustrations largely from secular sources; they have no strongly marked dogmatic features, and their language has a freedom and a force that are peculiar. Hating the Romanists he was nevertheless most conspicuously the opponent of the sects that accused the Church of England of Romanist inclination. During a great part of his life, Hall strove to maintain a position which had much to commend it, which was inspired by right-minded charity, which had entirely good objects, but which inevitably exposed him to misconstruction, involved him in disputes with his ecclesiastical superiors, and necessarily gave to his writing, in spite of its force and freedom, something of incompleteness in point of logic. He strove to maintain a middle course. He talked much of the evils of uncharitable judgment. He deprecated division, except upon what he deemed to be fundamentals, for—getting that the most complete cleavage between man and man must necessarily arise from differences as to what is, and what is not, fundamental. Undoubtedly this gives to his religious writings something of platitude, which is not saved by the freedom and force of his literary touch. There is a want of conviction, which no earnestness can quite supply. Yet side by side with this, there is the self-satisfaction which comes from the puritanical tenet, that all his life is ordered for him by providence, and that the misfortunes which befall an opponent are the contrivance of divine power. He preaches on the one hand the duty of charity, and on the other the evils of laxity, from a standpoint which is none the less narrow because it is midway between two extremes. “If,” he says, “men be allowed a latitude of opinions in some unnecessary verities, it may not be endured that in matter of religion every man should think what he lists, and utter what he thinks, and defend what he utters, and publish what he defends, and gather disciples to what he publisheth. This liberty, or rather licentiousness, would be the bane of any church.” He forgets that men cannot he brought to agree as to what are “verities,” but yet “unnecessary”; and that no utterance such as this brings us, for practical purposes, one whit nearer to agreement.

No wonder that he was suspected by such a man as Laud; no wonder that he writes as an outsider, and that his devotional

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writings often reflect the pagan moralist. In the end, fate was too strong for him : and when the flood-gates were opened, he speaks like a man, overwhelmed and confounded by the fierceness of controversies, the logical importance of which he never rightly appreciated. Yet at times, baffled as he is between authority and private judgment, he hits the mark with unerring accuracy, as a student of human nature. " The Romanists," he says " are all for blind obedience : the Romanists therefore go away with peace, without truth ; ours, under pretence of striving for some truths, abandon peace."

Besides his devotional writings we have from Hall some treatises on casuistry. Such treatises have never thriven in England. They do not appeal to a wide audience, and are therefore scarcely literature in the proper sense. Hall's casuistical writings lack the subtlety of the Romanist casuists, and they have none of his own special characteristics. They have none of the free and almost reckless vigour of his controversial writing ; little of the variety of illustration of his devotional treatises ; and only now and then, as when he covertly attacks Milton, in dealing with the question of divorce, do they show any of the vigour which we associate with his pen.

His most striking prose works are those of devotion and of Scriptural exegesis, which are often wordy, but always free and flowing in point of composition. They bear the impress of pulpit oratory, in which, as he tells us himself, he followed the practice of composing the whole sermon beforehand, but delivering it from memory and not from a manuscript. "Never," he says, " durst I climb into the pulpit to preach any sermon, whereof I had not before, in my poor and plain fashion, penned every word in the same order, wherein I hoped to deliver it ; although in the expression I listed not to be a slave to syllables."

H. CRAIK.

To the High and Mighty Monarch

Our dear and dread Sovereign Lord

JAMES,

By the good Providence of God, King of Great Britain, France,

and Ireland, the most worthy and most able Defender

of the Faith, and most Gracious Patron of the

Church : all peace and happiness.

Most Gracious Sovereign—I cannot so over-love this issue

of my own brain, as to hold it worthy of your Majesty's judicious

eyes : much less of the highest patronage under heaven : yet

now, my very duty hath bidden me look so high, and tells me

it would be no less than injurious, if I should not lay down my

work, where I owe my service ; and that I should offend, if I

presume not. Besides ; whither should the rivers run, but into

the sea? It is to your Majesty (under the Highest) that we

owe both these sweet opportunities of good, and all the good

fruits of these happy opportunities : if we should not, therefore,

freely offer to your Majesty some præmetial handfuls of that

crop, whereof you may challenge the whole harvest, how could

we be but shamelessly unthankful? I cannot praise my present,

otherwise than by the truth of that heart from which it proceedeth :

only this I may say, that seldom any man hath offered to your

royal hands a greater bundle of his own thoughts (some whereof,

as it must needs fall out amongst so many, have been confessed

profitable), nor perhaps more variety of discourse. For here

shall your Majesty find morality, like a good handmaid, waiting

on divinity ; and divinity, like some great lady, every day in

several dresses ; speculation interchanged with experience ;

positive theology with polemical; textual with discursory; popular

with scholastical.

I cannot dissemble my joy to have done this little good ; and if it be the comfort and honour of your unworthy servant, that the God of heaven hath vouchsafed to use his hand in the least service of His Church ; how can it be but your crown and rejoicing, that the same God hath set apart your Majesty, as a glorious instrument of such an universal good to the whole Christian world ? It was a mad conceit of that old Heresiarch, which might justly take his name from madness, than an huge giant bears up the earth with his shoulder ; which he changes every thirtieth year for ease ; and, with the removal, causes an earthquake. If by the device he had meant only an emblem of kings (as our ancient mythologists, under their Saint George, and Christopher, have described the Christian soldier and good pastor), he had not done amiss : for surely, the burden of the whole world lies on the shoulders of sovereign authority ; and it is no marvel if the earth quake in the change. As kings are to the world, so are good kings to the Church. None can be so blind, or curious, as not to grant, that the whole Church of God upon earth rests herself principally (next to her stay above) upon your Majesty's royal supportation : you may truly say with David, Ego sustineo columnas ejus. What wonder is it, then, if our tongues and pens bless you ; if we be ambitious of all occasions, that may testify our cheerful gratulations of this happiness to your Highness, and ours in you? Which, our humble prayers unto Him, by whom kings reign, shall labour to continue, till both the earth and heavens be truly changed.— The unworthiest of your Majesty's servants,

JOSEPH HALL.

(Prefatory Letter to Contemplations.)

MEDIATION IN CHURCH CONTROVERSIES

IT was not long after, that his Majesty, finding the exigence of the affairs of the Netherlandish churches to require it, both advised them to a synodical decision ; and, by his incomparable wisdom, promoted the work. My unworthiness was named for one of the assistants of that honourable, grave, and reverend meeting, where I failed not of my best service to that woefully

distracted Church. By the time I had stayed some two months there, the unquietness of the nights in those garrison towns working upon the tender disposition of my body, brought me to such weakness through want of rest, that it began to disable me from attending the Synod: which yet, as I might, I forced myself unto; as wishing that my zeal could have discountenanced my infirmity. Where, in the meantime, it is well worthy of my thankful remembrance, that being in an afflicted and languishing condition for a fortnight together with that sleepless distemper, yet it pleased God, the very night before I was to preach the Latin sermon to the Synod, to bestow upon me such a comfortable refreshing of sufficient sleep, as thereby my spirits were revived, and I was enabled with much vigour and vivacity to perform that service: which was no sooner done, than my former complaint renewed upon me, and prevailed against all the remedies that the counsel of physicians could advise me unto; so as, after long strife, I was compelled to yield unto a retirement, for the time, to the Hague; to see if change of place and more careful attendance, which I had in the house of our right honourable ambassador, the Lord Carleton, now Viscount Dorchester, might recover me. But when, notwithstanding all means, my weakness increased so far as that there was small likelihood left of so much strength remaining as might bring me back into England, it pleased his gracious majesty, by our noble ambassador's solicitation, to call me off, and to substitute a worthy divine, Mr. Doctor Goade, in my unwillingly forsaken room. Returning by Dort, I sent in my sad farewell to that grave assembly; who, by common vote, sent to me the president of the synod and the assistants, with a respective and gracious valediction. Neither did the deputies of my lords the States neglect after a very respectful compliment sent from them to me by Daniel Heinsius, to visit me: and, after a noble acknowledgement of more good service from me than I durst own, dismissed me with an honourable retribution: and sent after me a rich medal of gold, the portraiture of the synod, for a precious monument of their respects to my poor endeavours; who failed not, while I was at the Hague, to impart unto them my poor advice, concerning the proceeding of that synodical meeting. The difficulties of my return, in such weakness, were many and great; wherein, if ever, God manifested His special providence

to me, in overruling the cross accidents of that passage; and, after many dangers, and despairs, contriving my safe arrival.

After not many years' settling at home, it grieved my soul to see our own Church begin to sicken of the same disease, which we had endeavoured to cure in our neighbours.

Mr. Montague's tart and vehement assertions of some positions, near of kin to the Remonstrants of Netherland, gave occasioner of raising no small broil in the Church.

Sides were taken; pulpits everywhere rang of these opinions; but parliaments took notice of the division, and questioned the occasion.

Now, as one that desired to do all good offices to our dear and common mother, I set my thoughts on work, how so dangerous a quarrel might be happily composed:

and, finding that mistaking was more guilty of this dissension, than misbelieving (since it plainly appeared to me, that Mr. Montague meant to express, not Arminius, but B. Overall, a more moderate and safe author, however he sped in delivery of him);

I wrote a little project of pacification, wherein I desired to rectify the judgment of men, concerning this misapprehended controversy;

showing them the true party in this unreasonable plea; and, because B. Overall went a midway, betwixt the two opinions which he held extreme, and must needs therefore somewhat differ from the commonly-received tenet in these points,

I gathered out of B. Overall on the one side, and out of our English divines at Dort on the other, such common propositions concerning these five busy articles, as wherein both of them are fully agreed.

All which being put together, seemed unto me to make up so sufficient a body of accorded truth, that all other questions moved hereabouts appeared merely superfluous;

and every moderate Christian might find where to rest himself without hazard of contradiction.

These I made bold, by the hands of Dr. Young, the worthy dean of Winchester, to present to his excellent Majesty, together with an humble motion of a peaceable silence to be enjoined to both parts, in those other collateral and needless disquisitions;

which, if they might befit the schools of academical disputants, could not certainly sound well from the pulpits of popular auditories.

Those reconciliatory papers fell under the eyes of some grave divines on both parts.

Mr. Montague professed that he had seen them, and would subscribe to them very willingly: others, that were contrarily minded, both English, Scottish, and French divines, proffered their hands to a no less ready sub-

scription. So as much peace promised to result out of that

weak and poor enterprise, had not the confused noise of the

misconstructions of those who never saw the work, crying it

down for the very name's sake, meeting with the royal edict of

a general inhibition, buried it in a secure silence.

I was scorched a little with this flame, which I desired to

quench : yet this could not stay my hand from thrusting itself

into a hotter fire.

Some insolent Romanists, Jesuits especially, in their bold

disputations (which, in the time of the treaty of the Spanish

match and the calm of that relaxation, were very frequent),

pressed nothing so much as a catalogue of the professors of our

religion, to be deduced from the primitive times ; and, with the

peremptory challenge of the impossibility of this pedigree, dazzled

the eyes of the simple : while some of our learned men, under-

taking to satisfy so needless and unjust a demand, gave, as I

conceived, great advantage to the adversary. In a just indignation

to see us thus wronged by misstating the question betwixt us, as

if we, yielding ourselves to another church, originally and funda-

mentally different, should make good our own erection upon the

ruins, yea, the nullity of theirs ; and, well considering the infinite

and great inconveniences that must needs follow upon this defence,

I adventured to set my pen on work ; desiring to rectify the

opinions of those men, whom an ignorant zeal had transported,

to the prejudice of our holy cause ; laying forth the damnable

corruptions of the Roman Church, yet making our game of the

outward visibility thereof; and, by this means putting them to

the probation of those newly obtruded corruptions, which are

truly guilty of the breach betwixt us. The drift whereof being

not well conceived by some spirits that were not so wise as

fervent, I was suddenly exposed to the rash censures of many

well affected and zealous Protestants ; as if I had, in a remission

of my wonted zeal to the truth, attributed too much to the Roman

Church, and strengthened the adversaries' hands and weakened

our own. This envy I was fain to take off by my speedy apolo-

getical advertisement, and, after that, by my Reconciler, seconded

with the unanimous letters of such reverend, learned, sound

divines, both Bishops and doctors, as whose undoubtable authority

was able to bear down calumny itself ; which done, I did, by a

seasonable moderation, provide for the peace of the Church, in

silencing both my defendants and challengers, in this unkind and

ill-raised quarrel.

Immediately before the publishing of this tractate (which did not a little aggravate the envy and suspicion), I was by his majesty raised to the bishopric of Exeter; having formerly, with much humble deprecation, refused the see of Gloucester earnestly proffered unto me. How, beyond all expectation, it pleased God to place me in that Western charge; which, if the Duke of Buckingham's letters, he being then in France, had arrived but some hours sooner, I had been defeated of; and, by what strange means it pleased God to make up the competency of that provision, by the unthought of addition of the rectory of St. Breok within that diocese; if I should fully relate the circumstances, would force the confession of an extraordinary hand of God in the disposing of those events.

I entered upon that place, not without much prejudice and suspicion on some hands; for some, that sat at the stern of the Church, had me in great jealousy for too much favour of Puritanism. I soon had intelligence who were set over me for espials. My ways were curiously observed and scanned. However, I took the resolution to follow those courses which might most conduce to the peace and happiness of my new and weighty charge. Finding, therefore, some factious spirits very busy in that diocese, I used all fair and gentle means to win them to good order; and therein so happily prevailed, that, saving two of that numerous clergy, who continuing in their refractoriness fled away from censure, they were all perfectly reclaimed; so as I had not one minister professedly opposite to the anciently received orders (for I was never guilty of urging any new impositions) of the church in that large diocese.

Thus we went on comfortably together, till some persons of note in the clergy, being guilty of their own negligence and disorderly courses, began to envy our success; and, finding me ever ready to encourage those whom I found conscionably forward and painful in their places, and willingly giving way to orthodox and peaceable lectures in several parts of my diocese, opened their mouths against me, both obliquely in the pulpit and directly at the court; complaining of my too much indulgence to persons disaffected, and my too much liberty of frequent lecturings within my charge. The billows went so high, that I was three several times upon my knee to his majesty, to answer these great criminations; and what contestation I had with some great lords concerning these particulars, it would be too long to report; only

this, under how dark a cloud I was hereupon I was so sensible

that I plainly told the lord Archbishop of Canterbury, that rather

than I would be obnoxious to those slanderous tongues of his

misinformers, I would cast up my rochet. I knew I went right

ways, and would not endure to live under undeserved suspicions.

(From Observations on some Specialities of Divine Providence

in the Life of Joseph Hall, Bishop of Norwich.)

BESIEGED IN HIS PALACE

BUT after the covenant was appointed to be taken, and was

generally swallowed of both clergy and laity, my power of

ordination was, with some strange violence, restrained: for

when I was going on in my wonted course, which no law or

ordinance had inhibited, certain forward volunteers in the city,

banding together, stir up the mayor and aldermen and sheriffs to

call me to an account for an open violation of their covenant.

To this purpose, divers of them came to my gates at a very

unseasonable time: and, knocking very vehemently, required to

speak with the bishop. Messages were sent to them to know

their business: nothing would satisfy them but the bishop's

presence. At last I came down to them, and demanded what

the matter was: they would have the gate opened, and then they

would tell me. I answered that I would know them better first:

if they had anything to say to me I was ready to hear them.

They told me they had a writing to me, from Mr. Mayor, and

some other of their magistrates. The paper contained both a

challenge of me for breaking covenant, in ordaining ministers;

and, withal, required me to give in the names of those, which

were ordained by me both then and formerly since the covenant.

My answer was, that Mr. Mayor was much abused by those who

had misinformed him, and drawn that paper from him; that I

would the next day give a full answer to the writing. They

moved that my answer might be my personal appearance at the

Guildhall. I asked them when they ever heard of a bishop of

Norwich appearing before a mayor. I knew mine own place;

and would take that way of answer which I thought fit; and so

dismissed them, who had given out that day, that had they

known before of mine ordaining, they would have pulled me

and those whom I ordained out of the chapel by the ears.

While I received nothing, yet something was required of me.

They were not ashamed, after they had taken away and sold all

my goods and personal estate, to come to me for assessments

and monthly payments for that estate which they had taken;

and took distresses from me upon my most just denial; and

vehemently required me to find the wonted arms of my pre-

decessors, when they had left me nothing.

Many insolencies and affronts were, in all this time, put upon

us. One while a whole rabble of volunteers came to my gates

late, when they were locked up, and called for the porter to give

them entrance: which being not yielded, they threatened to

make by force: and had not the said gates been very strong,

they had done it. Others of them clambered over the walls and

would come into my house; their errand they said, was to search

for delinquents; what they would have done I know not, had not

we by a secret way sent to raise the officers for our rescue.

Another while, the Sheriff Toftes and Alderman Linsey, attended

with many zealous followers, came into my chapel to look for

superstitious pictures and relics of idolatry, and sent for me, to let

me know they found those windows full of images, which were

very offensive, and must be demolished. I told them they were

the pictures of some ancient and worthy bishops, as St. Ambrose,

Austin, etc. It was answered me, that they were so many

popes; and one younger man amongst the rest (Townsend as I

perceived afterwards) would take upon him to defend that every

diocesan bishop was pope. I answered him with some scorn;

and obtained leave that I might, with the least loss and defacing

of the windows, give order for taking off that offence; which I

did by causing the heads of those pictures to be taken off, since

I knew the bodies could not offend.

There was not that care and moderation used in reforming

the cathedral church bordering upon my palace. It is no other

than tragical to relate the carriage of that furious sacrilege,

whereof our eyes and ears were the sad witnesses, under the

authority and presence of Linsey, Toftes the sheriff, and Green-

wood. Lord, what work was here! what clattering of glasses!

what beating down of walls! what tearing up of monuments!

what pulling down of seats! what wresting out of irons and brass

from the windows and graves! what defacing of arms! what

demolishing of curious stone-work, that had not any representation in the world, but only of the cost of the founder, and skill of the mason ! what tooting and piping upon the destroyed organ-pipes ! and what a hideous triumph on the market-day before all the country ; when, in a kind of sacrilegious and profane procession, all the organ pipes, vestments, both copes and surplices, together with the leaden cross which had been newly sawn down from over the Green-yard pulpit, and the service-books and singing-books that could be had, were carried to the fire in the public market-place; a lewd wretch walking before the train, in his cope trailing in the dirt, with a service-book in his hand, imitating in an impious scorn the tune, and usurping the words of the litany used formerly in the church. Near the public cross, all these monuments of idolatry must be sacrificed to the fire : not without much ostentation of a zealous joy, in discharging ordinance, to the cost of some, who professed how much they had longed to see that day. Neither was it any news, to be filled with musketeers waiting for the major's return ; drinking and tobacconing as freely as if it had turned ale-house.

Still yet I remained in my palace, though with but a poor retinue and means ; but the house was held too good for me. Many messages were sent by Mr. Corbet to remove me thence. The first pretence was, that the committee, who now was at charge for a house to sit in, might make their daily session there ; being a place both more public, roomy, and chargeless. The committee, after many consultations, resolved it convenient to remove thither ; though many overtures and offers were made to the contrary. Mr. Corbet was impatient of my stay there ; and procures and sends peremptory messages for my present dislodging ; we desired to have some time allowed for providing some other mansion, if we must needs be cast out of this ; which my wife was so willing to hold, that she offered, if the charge of the present committee-house were the thing stood upon, she would be content to defray the sum of the rent of that house of her fifth part : but that might not be yielded ; out we must, and that in three weeks' warning by Midsummer Day then approaching : so as we might have lain in the street for aught I know, had not the providence of God so ordered it, that a neighbour in the close, one Mr. Gostlin, a widower, was content to void his house for us.

VOL. II

L

This hath been my measure; wherefore I know not: Lord, thou knowest, who only canst remedy, and end, and forgive or avenge this horrible oppression.

(From Bishop Hall's Hard Measure.)

BALAAM AND THE ASS

That no man may marvel to see Balaam have visions from God and utter prophecies from Him, his very ass hath his eyes opened to see the angel, which his master could not, and his mouth opened to speak more reasonably than his master.

There is no beast deserves so much wonder as this of Balaam, whose common sense is advanced above the reason of his rider; so as for the time the prophet is brutish, and the beast prophetical.

Who can but stand amazed at the eye, at the tongue of this silly creature? For so dull a sight, it was much to see a bodily object that were not too apparent, but to see that spirit which his rider discerned not was far beyond nature.

To hear a voice come from that mouth, which was used only to bray, it was strange and uncouth: but to hear a beast, whose nature is noted for incapacity, to out-reason his master, a professed prophet, is in the very height of miracles; yet can no heart stick at these, that considers the dispensation of the Almighty in both.

Our eye could no more see a beast, than a beast can see an angel, if He had not given this power to it.

How easy is it for Him that made the eye of man and beast, to dim or enlighten it at His pleasure; and if His power can make the very stones to speak, how much more a creature of sense.

That evil spirit spake in the serpent to our first parent; why is it more that a spirit should speak in the mouth of a beast?

How ordinarily did the heathen receive their oracles out of stones and trees!

Do not we ourselves teach birds to speak those sentences they understand not?

we may wonder, we cannot distrust, when we compare the act with the Author; which can as easily create a voice without a body as a body without a voice.

Who now can hereafter plead his simplicity and dulness of apprehending spiritual things, when he sees how God exalts the eyes of a beast, to see a spirit?

Who can be proud of seeing visions, since an angel appeared to a beast?

Neither was his skin

better after it than others of his kind. Who can complain of

his own rudeness and inability to reply in a good cause, when

the very beast is enabled by God to convince his master? There

is no mouth into which God cannot put words; and how often

doth he choose the weak and unwise to confound the learned

and mighty!

What had it been better for the ass to see the angel, if he

had rushed still upon his sword? Evils were as good not

seen, as not avoided; but now he declines the way, and saves

his burthen. It were happy for perverse sinners, if they could

learn of this beast, to run away from foreseen judgments. The

revenging angel stands before us: and though we know we

shall as sure die as sin, yet we have not the wit or grace to

give back: though it be with the hurt of a foot to save the

body; with the pain of the body to save the soul.

I see, what fury and stripes the impatient prophet bestows

upon this poor beast, because he will not go on; yet if he had

gone on, himself had perished. How often do we wish those

things, the not obtaining whereof is mercy! We grudge to be

staid in the way to death, and fly upon those which oppose our

perdition.

I do not (as who would not expect) see Balaam's hair stand

upright, nor himself alighting and appalled at this monster of

miracles: but, as if no new thing had happened, he returns

words to the beast, full of anger, void of admiration; whether

his trade of sorcering had so inured him to receive voices from

his familiars, in shape of beasts, that this event seemed not

strange to him; or, whether his rage and covetousness had so

transported him, that he had no leisure to observe the unnatural

unusualness of the event. Some men make nothing of those

things, which overcome others with horror and astonishment.

(From Contemplations.)

TO MY REVEREND BRETHREN OF THE DIOCESE

OF NORWICH

WORTHY BRETHREN—Ye cannot but have taken notice of the

silence, that hath lately possessed my tongue, which was wont

to be vocal enough. Besides some external reasons, it is my

care and zeal of peace, that stops my mouth for the time; and bids me refrain, even from good works. In the meanwhile, the same dear respect to peace employs my hand; and bids it supply the place of my tongue, as that which shall speak louder and to more eyes than my tongue could to ears: both of them are heartily devoted to peace, and strive whether shall more express it.

It was ever the desire of my soul, even from my first entrance upon the public service of the Church, according to my known signature, with Noah's Dove, to have brought an olive branch to the tossed Ark: and God knows how sincerely I have endeavoured it: but, if my wings have been too short, and the wind too high for me, to carry it home, I must content myself with the conscience of my faithful devotions. Some little hint whereof, notwithstanding, I have thought fit to give to the world, in this present discourse, lest I should seem to be, like itself, all pretence; and that I might by this essay of mine, open the way to some more able undertakers.

Now therefore, let me recommend this subject to your seriousest thoughts; and beseech you all, in the bowels of our common Saviour, to join with me, in the zealous prosecution of what I here treat of, peace.

It is a useful rule of our Romish casuists, that he who will have benefit of their large indulgences, must porrigere manus adjutrices. Surely, it holds much better, in the present case. Whoever will hope to reap the comfort of this incomparable blessing of peace, must put forth his helping hand, towards the procuring it. Oh, let not our studies, nor prayers, nor tears, nor counsels, nor solicitations, nor engagements, nor endeavours, be wanting to it: no; nor, if need were, our blood. What the price of it is, since the fruition of it did not teach us, we have too well learnt in the want.

Alas, my brethren, we cannot help one another sufficiently to condole the miseries under which we, yea this whole Church, yea this whole bleeding monarchy, yea the whole Christian world, at this time groaneth, by reason of that woeful and deadly debate, that rageth everywhere. All the whole earth is on fire: the flame reacheth up to heaven, and calls for more thence. Woe is me! our very punishment is our sin. What should we do, but pour out floods of tears, towards the quenching of it: and say, with the lamenting prophet, "Oh that my head were waters,

and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people !”—Jer. ix. 1.

But, as Chrysostom said long ago in the like case to Inno-centius, it is not wailing will serve the turn, if we do not bestir ourselves, what we may, for redress. When we see our house on fire, do we stand still and cry ? do we not ring bells, and call neighbours, and bring ladders, and fetch buckets, and pour on water, and pull down reeds and rafters, and whatever may feed that flame ? And why should we not do so, in this common con-flagration ? Oh, let every man of us put his hand to the work ; and labour to withdraw that hellish fuel which nourisheth and increaseth this fearful combustion ; and, if each man can but pull away one stick, it shall be his comfort and joy in that great day. But far, far be it from us, that any of us should mis-employ himself as an incendiary.

It is felony, by our municipal laws, for a man to burn but the frame of a building intended for a house : how heinously flagra-tious shall the God of Heaven account it, to set on fire His complete spiritual house the Church, whereof every believer is a living stone ! Doubtless, how slight account soever the world makes of these spiritual distempers, it shall be easier in the day of judgment for thieves and whoremongers and adulterers than for the breakers of public peace. Never was there any so fearful venge-ance inflicted upon any malefactors, as upon Korah and his combination. Surely, if we consider the sin in itself, other offences had been far more heinous : but in that it was a pre-sumptuous mutiny, tending to the affront of allowed authority, to the violation of peace, and to the destruction of community, the earth could not stand under it : hell only is fit to receive it.

I speak not this to intimate the least suspicion, much less accusation, of any of you, my dear brethren ; but, by way of a tender precaution and loving cohortation, to excite you and my-self to the improvement of all the powers of our souls, for the recovery and perpetuation of the Church's peace : a duty, which both our blessed Saviour, and his holy Apostles, hath so vehe-mently urged, as if there were no life of Christianity without it.

As we honour the God of Love and Peace whom we serve, as we love the Prince of Peace in whom we believe, as we tender the success of the Gospel of Peace which we preach, as we wish and hope for the comfort of the peace of God in our own bosoms, let us seek peace where it is missing, let us follow after it when

it flies from us, let us never leave the chase, by importuning God and men, till we overtake it, till we re-enjoy it, and all the blessings that accompany it ; which shall be ever the prayer and endeavour of—Your faithful and loving fellow-labourer,

JOSEPH NORWICH.

(Prefatory Letter to The Peace Maker.)

THE CHRISTIAN'S DISPOSITION

THE Christian is a man and more, an earthly saint, an angel clothed in flesh, the only lawful image of his Maker and Redeemer, the abstract of God's Church on earth, a model of heaven, made up in clay; the living temple of the Holy Ghost.

For his disposition, it hath in it as much of heaven as his earth may make room for.

He were not a man, if he were quite free from corrupt affections ; but these he masters, and keeps in with a strait hand ; and if, at any time, they grow testy and headstrong, he breaks them with a severe discipline, and will rather punish himself than not tame them. He checks his appetite with discreet but strong denials, and forbeärs to pamper nature lest it grow wanton and impetuous.

He walks on earth, but converses in heaven ; having his eyes fixed on the invisible, and enjoying a sweet communion with his God and Saviour. While all the rest of the world sits in darkness, he lives in a perpetual light : the heaven of heavens is open to none but him ; thither his eye pierceth and beholds those beams of inaccessible glory which shine in no face but his.

The deep mysteries of godliness, which to the great clerks of the world are as a book clasped and sealed up, lie open before him fair and legible ; and, while those bookmen know whom they have heard of, he knows whom he hath believed.

He will not suffer his Saviour to be ever out of his eye ; and if, through some worldly interceptions, he lose the sight of that blessed object for a time, he zealously retrieves him,—not without a hungry check of his own mis-carriage,—and is now so much the more fixed by his former slackening so as he will henceforth sooner part with his soul than his Redeemer.

The terms of eterneness wherein he stands with the Lord of

Life are such as he can feel, but cannot express though he

should borrow the language of angels : it is enough that they are

one Spirit.

His reason is willingly captivated to his faith, his will to

his reason, and his affections to both.

He fears nothing that he sees, in comparison of that which

he sees not; and displeasure is more dreadful to him than

smart.

Good is the adequate object of his love : which he duly pro-

portions, according to the degrees of its eminence ; affecting the

chief good, not without a certain ravishment of spirit ; the lesser,

with a wise and holy moderation.

Whether he do more hate sin, or the evil spirit that suggests

it, is a question.

Earthly contents are too mean grounds whereon to raise his

joy ; these, as he balks not when they meet him in his way, so

he doth not too eagerly pursue ; he may taste of them, but so as

he would rather fast than surfeit.

He is not insensible of those losses which casualty or enmity

may inflict, but that which lies most heavily upon his heart is

his sin. This makes his sleep short and troublesome, his meals

stomachless, his recreations listless, his everything tedious, till

he find his soul acquitted by his great surety in heaven ; which

done, he feels more peace and pleasure in his calm than he found

horror in the tempest.

His heart is the storehouse of most precious graces. That

faith whereby his soul is established triumphs over the world,

whether it allure or threaten ; and bids defiance to all the

powers of darkness, not fearing to be foiled by any opposition.

His hope cannot be discouraged with the greatest difficulties ; but

bears up against natural impossibilities, and knows how to

reconcile contradictions. His charity is both extensive and

fervent, barring out no one that bears the face of a man ; but

pouring out itself upon the household of faith : that studies good

constructions of men and actions, and keeps itself free both from

suspicion and censure.

Grace doth more exalt him than his humility depresses him.

Were it not for that Christ who dwells in him, he could think

himself the meanest of all creatures : now, he knows he may

not disparage the Deity of Him by whom he is so gloriously

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inhabited, in whose only right he can be as great in his own thoughts as he is despicable in the eyes of the world.

He is wise to Godward, however it be with him for the world; and, well knowing he cannot serve two masters, he cleaves to the better, making choice of that good part which cannot be taken from him, not so much regarding to get that which he cannot keep, as to possess himself of that good which he cannot lose.

He is just in all his dealings with men, hating to thrive by injury and oppression, and will rather leave behind something of his own than filch from another's heap.

He is not closefisted, where is just occasion of his distribution, willingly parting with those metals which he regards only for use, not caring for either their colour or substance; earth is to him no other than itself, in what hue soever it appeareth.

In every good cause he is bold as a lion, and can neither fear faces nor shrink at dangers, and is rather heartened with opposition; pressing so much the more, where he finds a large door open, and many adversaries, and, when he must suffer, doth as resolutely stoop, as he did before valiantly resist.

He is holily temperate in the use of all God's blessings, as knowing by whom they are given, and to what end; neither dares either to mis-lay them, or to mis-spend them lavishly, as duly weighing upon what terms he receives them, and fore-expecting an account.

Such a hand doth he carry upon his pleasures and delights, that they run not away with him; he knows how to slacken the reins without a debauched kind of dissoluteness, and how to straiten them without a sullen rigour.

(From The Christian.)

UNDUTIFUL SONS

In your next section, like ill-bred sons, you spit in the face of your mother-a mother too good for such sons-the Church of England; and tell us of 'Papists, that dazzle the eyes of poor people with the glorious name of the Holy Mother the Church.'

If they be too fond of their mother, I am sure your mother hath little cause to be fond of you, who can and dare compare her to those

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Ethiopian strumpets, which were common to all comers. For

your whole undutiful carriage towards her, take heed of the ravens

of the valley. As if we were no less strangers than you enemies

to the Church of England, you tell the world, that we know not

who she is; and that we wonder when we are asked the question,

and run descant upon the two archbishops, bishops, Convocation,

even what your luxuriant wit shall please; and, at last, you make

up your mouth with a merry jest, telling your reader that the

Remonstrant, out of his simplicity, never heard nor thought of

any more Churches of England than one. Ridiculum caput!

Sit you merry, brethren; but, truly, after all your sport, still my

"simplicity" tells me there is but one Church of England. There

are many Churches in England, but many Churches of England

were never till now heard of. You had need fetch it as far as

the "Heptarchy." And, to show how far you are from the

objected simplicity, ye tell us, in the shutting up, that England,

Scotland, and Ireland are all one Church of England. Nullum

magnum ingenium sine mixturâ dementiæ.

(From A Defence of The Humble Remonstrance.)

WEARY LOQUACITY

AND now forbear, if you can, readers, to smile in the parting, at

the grave counsel of our wise Smectymnuus; who, after he hath

tired his reader with a tedious volume, in answer to my short

"Defence," adviseth me very sadly, that my "words" may be

"less in number."

Yet, howsoever his weary loquacity may, in this causeless

exprobration, deserve to move your mirth; I shall resolve to

make good use of his counsel. Est olitor sapè opportuniù

locutus. In the sequel, my words, which were never yet taxed

for an offensive superfluity, shall be very few; and such as, to

your greater wonder, I shall be beholden for, to my kind

adversaries.

The rereward of my late Defence was backed by the

sound testimony of Dr. Abraham Scultetus, the famous Professor

of Heidelberg, and the great oracle in his time of the Palatinate;

who, in both the tenets of Episcopacy by Divine Right, and the

unwarrantableness of Lay Presbytery, agrees so fully with me as

I do with myself: the grounds whereof, I dare confidently say, are such, as no wit of man can overthrow or weaken.

Now what say my Smectymnuans to this? “For brevity sake, we will content ourselves with what that learned Rivet spake, when these two treatises of Scultetus were showed to him, by a great prelate amongst us, and his judgment required :

Hæc omnia jamdudum sunt protrita et profligata; all these have been long since overworn, and beaten out, and baffled.”

In good time, brethren! And why should not I take leave to return the same answer to you, in this your tedious vellation of Episcopacy? There is not one new point in this your overswoln and unwieldy bulk. No hay-cock hath been oftener shaken abroad, and tossed up and down in the wind, than every argument of yours hath been agitated by more able pens than mine :

Hæc omnia jamdudum sunt protrita et profligata. Why should I abuse my good hours; and spend my last age, devoted to better thoughts, in an unprofitable babbling?

You may, perhaps, expect to meet with fitter matches, that have more leisure. The cause is not mine alone; but common to this whole Church, to the whole Hierarchy, to all the Fathers of the Church throughout the world, to all the dutiful sons of those Fathers wheresoever. You may not hope, that so many learned and eminent divines, who find themselves equally interested in this quarrel, can suffer either so just a cause unseconded, or so high insolence unchastised.

For myself, I remember the story that Plutarch tells of the contestation between Crassus and Deiotarus; men well stricken in age, and yet attempting several exploits, not so proper for their gray hairs. “What,” said Crassus to Deiotarus, “dost thou begin to build a city, now in the latter end of the day?” “And truly,” said Deiotarus to him again, “I think it somewhat with the latest for you to think of conquering the Parthians.”

Some witty lookers-on will, perhaps, apply both these to me. It is the city of God, the evangelical Jerusalem, which some factious hands have miserably demolished : is it for shaking and wrinkled hands to build up again, now in the very setting and shutting-in of the day? They are dangerous and not inexpert Parthians, who shoot out their arrows, even bitter invectives, against the sacred and apostolical government of the Church; and such, as know how to fight, fleeing : are these fit for the vanquishing of a decrepit leader?

Shortly, then, since I see that our Smectymnuans have vowed, like as some impetuous scolds are wont to do, to have the last word ; and have set up a resolution, by taking advantage of their multitude, to tire out their better-employed adversary, with mere length of discourse ; and to do that by bulk of body, which by clean strength they cannot ; I have determined to take off my hand from this remaining controversy of Episcopacy (wherein I have said enough already, without the return of answer ; and, indeed, anticipated all those threadbare objections, which are here again regested to the weary reader), and to turn off my combined opposites to matches more meet for their age and quality : with this profession, notwithstanding, that, if I shall find, which I hope I never shall, this just and holy cause, whether out of insensibleness or cautious reservedness, neglected by more able defenders, I shall borrow so much time from my better thoughts, as to bestow some strictures, where I may not afford a large confutation. I have ever held μέγα βιβλίον μέγα κακὸν : which, as it holds in whatsoever matter of discourse, so especially in this so beaten subject of Episcopacy ; wherein, since I find it impossible for my adversaries to fall upon any but former notions, oft urged, oft answered, “For brevity sake we will content ourselves with what that learned Rivet spake of the two treatises of Scultetus, Hæc omnia jamdudum sunt protrita et profligata,” with this yet for a conclusion, that if, in this their wordy and wearisome volume, they shall meet with any one argument, which they dare avow for new, they shall expect their answer by the next post.

(From An Answer to Smectymnuus's Vindication.)

JAMES USSHER

[James Ussher was born at Dublin on the 4th of January 1581. He was nephew of Henry Ussher, Archbishop of Armagh, and of Richard Stanihurst, translator of four books of the Æneid. At the age of thirteen he was admitted as the second on the roll of scholars of the newly-founded Trinity College, Dublin. Subsequently he became Fellow of the same Society. At the death of his father in 1598, he abandoned most of the property that came to him, and devoted himself to study. From 1601 to 1619 he read the fathers daily. He became famous as a theologian and antiquary, and was the friend of Camden, Selden, Cotton, and Evelyn. In 1607 he was made Professor of Divinity at Dublin, in 1620 Bishop of Meath, and in 1625 Archbishop of Armagh. In 1640 he crossed the Channel to live in England, where he died on the 21st of March 1656.

Ussher's magnum opus is his Latin Annales Veteris et Novi Testamenti. His principal English works are treatises on The Religion of the Ancient Irish and British; Imperial Laws in Great Britain and Ireland; Corbes, Herenachs, and Termon Lands; Immanuel, or the Mystery of the Incarnation; An Answer to the Challenge of a Jesuit; The Power of the Prince. A complete edition of Ussher's writings, with a Life, was published by Professor Elrington and the Rev. J. Todd, in 17 vols. 1841-64.]

THE fame of Archbishop Ussher has long been but a nominis umbra, nor shall anything here be said to recall his ghost from the quiet gardens of oblivion. Seventeen volumes of his treatises gather dust upon the shelves; as one takes them down, one remembers the disinterment of some buried hero from his burrow among the hills. The very topics are sufficiently alarming—The Chronology of the Old Testament; The Primitive Celtic Church; Corbes, Termons, and Herenachs. Such themes repel the ordinary man, and for the specialist the treatment is out of date. There are qualities of style, indeed, whereby the most abstruse disquisitions, like flies in amber, survive. One reads Burton without regard to his faded theories on the physical basis of love. But to style as an end in itself Ussher paid little heed. Controversy was his business; his interest, antiquities. He used his prose in the spirit of the scholar rather than the artist; as the instrument

of his labours, not their object. And since all mere scholarship must needs be superseded, Ussher's writings have lost their savour; he lingers, if at all, in the popular mind only as the discoverer of two dates—that of 4 B.C. for the birth of Christ; that of 4004 B.C., which figures on the margin of our Bibles for the creation. Nor can there be a better essay in the study of evidence than to consider why the methods which led him to so sound a conclusion in the one case proved so untrustworthy in the other.

Argument means for Ussher the accumulation of authorities; authorities, indeed, weighed with precision, criticised as to their authenticity, but in the last result accepted as authoritative. And with this is connected his renunciation of style; for to style the abundance of quotation must needs be fatal. Fragments pieced together from other men's works, even where translation is freely used, cannot but lack the unity which the impress of a single personality gives. Ussher's writing is always a mosaic of quotations. His learning is immense. At an early age, so his biographers tell us, he sat down and read the fathers straight through. Chroniclers, schoolmen, the writers of Greece and Rome, all are at his fingers' ends. He has wandered in the byeways of Celtic and Scandinavian lore. And in this he was happy, that by his time the sum-total of things knowable had not so swelled as to be beyond the compass of one intellect; so that he does not appear a mere specialist, but a true scholar, with a wide sweep and an adequate survey of knowledge. Moreover, he has at least one gift—an architectonic gift—of style; he marshals his authorities with a due regard to balance and proportion, keeping always in mind the clear design of his argument, and the impression he intends it to produce. Another side of Ussher's disregard of the purely literary element in composition is apparent in his two or three short dogmatic treatises. In these copious citation would have been out of place; but in its stead he adopts the method of question and answer—of catechism, in fact. Where he does write a few pages for himself, his English is at least dignified, if a trifle Ciceronian. It must not be forgotten that more than half his work was composed in Latin, and that the habit of using the dead language naturally affected his mode of expressing himself in the living. Yet now and then he has touches racy with the raciness of a countryman of St. Patrick.

Most of Ussher's treatises, where their interest is not purely

JAMES USSHER

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antiquarian, bear more or less directly upon the controversy with Rome. He generally escapes the vulgarities of polemic. The Catholic Church, indeed, is "Babylonish" and "a dunghill of errors." But of the personal abuse, which tarnishes the gold of Milton, for instance, there is but little. As in life, so in speech, he is humane, and without asperity. One of his tracts, that On the Power of the Prince, belongs to the political side of theology. It is a pronouncement in favour of divine right; and this, together with his friendship with Laud, effectually disposes of his supposed leanings to Calvinism. A number of sermons are included in the complete edition of his works; but as these were published in spite of his expressed injunction, they need hardly be taken into account.

Edmund K. Chambers.

OF PURGATORY, AND PRAYER FOR THE DEAD

THE next point that offereth itself unto our consideration is that of purgatory. 'Whereof if any man do doubt, Cæsarius, a German monk of the Cistercian order, adviseth him for his resolution to make a journey into Scotland (the greater Scotland he meaneth) and there to enter into St. Patrick's purgatory, and then he giveth him his word, that 'he shall no more doubt of the pains of purgatory.' If Dr. Terry, who commendeth this unto us as the testimony 'of a most famous author,' should chance to have a doubtful thought hereafter of the pains of purgatory, I would wish his ghostly father to enjoin him no other penance but the undertaking of a pilgrimage unto St. Patrick's purgatory ; to see whether he would prove any wiser when he came from thence, than when he went thither. In the meantime, until he hath made some further experiment of the matter, he shall give me leave to believe him that hath been there, and hath cause to know the place as well as any (the island wherein it is seated, being held by him as part of the inheritance descended unto him from his ancestors) and yet professeth, that he found nothing therein, which might afford him any argument to think there was a purgatory.

I pass by that Nennius and Probus and all the elder writers of the life of St. Patrick that I have met withal, speak not one word of any such place ; and that Henry the monk of Saltrey, in the days of king Stephen, is the first in whom I could find any mention thereof ; this only would I know of the doctor, what the reason might be, that where he bringeth in the words of Giraldus Cambrensis touching this place, as 'an authentical authority'; he passeth over that part of his relation, wherein he affirmeth, that St. Patrick intended by this means to bring the rude people to a persuasion of the certainty 'of the infernal pains of the reprobate, and of the true and everlasting life of the elect after death?'

The Grecians allege this for one of their arguments against purgatory: that whereas "their fathers had delivered unto them

many visions and dreams, and other wonders concerning the everlasting punishment," wherewith the wicked should be

tormented in hell; yet none of them had "declared anything concerning a purgatory temporary fire." Belike the doctor was

afraid that we would conclude, upon the same ground, that St. Patrick was careful to plant in men's minds the belief of a heaven

and hell, but of purgatory taught them never a word. And sure I am, that in the book ascribed unto him, De Tribus Habit-

aculis, which is to be seen in his Majesty's library, there is no mention of any other place after this life, but of these two only.

I will lay down here the beginning of that treatise, and leave it to the judgment of any indifferent man, whether it can well stand with that

which the Romanists teach concerning purgatory at this day. "There be three habitations under the power of Almighty God: the first, the

lowermost, and the middle. The highest whereof is called the kingdom of God, or the kingdom of heaven, the lowermost is

termed hell, the middle is named the present world, or the circuit of the earth. The extremes whereof are altogether contrary

one to another: for what fellowship can there be betwixt light and darkness, betwixt Christ and Belial? but the middle hath some

similitude with the extremes. For in this world there is a mixture of the bad and of the good together, whereas in the kingdom

of God there are none bad, but all good: but in hell there are none good but all bad. And both these places are supplied out

of the middle. For of the men of this world some are lifted up to heaven, others are drawn down to hell. Namely, like are joined

unto like, that is to say, good to good, and bad to bad: just men to just angels, wicked men to wicked angels; the servants of

God to God, the servants of the devil to the devil. The blessed are called to the kingdom prepared for them from the beginning

of the world: the cursed are driven into the everlasting fire that is prepared for the devil and his angels." Thus far there.

Hitherto also may be referred that ancient canon of one of our Irish synods, wherein it is affirmed that the soul being separated

from the body is "presented before the judgment seat of Christ, who rendereth its own unto it, according as it hath done": and

that "neither the archangel can lead it into life, until the Lord hath judged it, nor the devil transport it unto pain, unless the

Lord do damn it"; as the writings of Sedulius likewise, that after

VOL. II

the end of this life "either death or life succeedeth," and that "death is the gate by which we enter into our kingdom" : together with that of Claudius ; that "Christ did take upon him our punishment without the guilt, that thereby he might loose our guilt, and finish also our punishment." Cardinal Bellarmine, indeed allegeth here against us the vision of Furseus, who "rising from the dead, told many things which he saw concerning the pains of purgatory," as Bede, he saith, doth write. But, by his good leave, we will be better advised, before we build articles of faith upon such visions and dreams as these, many whereof deserved to have a place among "the strange narrations of souls appearing after death," collected by Damascius the heathen idolater, rather than among the histories and discourses of sober Christians.

As for this vision of Furseus : all that Bede relateth of it to this purpose, is concerning great fires above the air, appointed to "examine every one according to the merits of his works," which peradventure may make something for Damascius his purgatory in circulo lacteo (for in that circle made he a way for the souls that went to the hades in heaven ; and would not have us wonder, that there they should be purged by the way) ; but nothing for the papist's purgatory, which Bellarmine by the common consent of the schoolmen determineth to be in the bowels of the earth. Neither is there anything else in the whole book of the life of Furseus, whence Bede borrowed these things, that looketh toward purgatory, unless peradventure that speech of the devil may be thought to give some advantage unto it. "This man hath not purged his sins upon earth ; neither doth he receive punishment for them here. Where is therefore the justice of God?" as if God's justice were not sufficiently satisfied by the sufferings of Christ : but man also must needs give further satisfaction thereunto by penal works or sufferings, either here, or in the other world, which is the ground upon which our Romanists do lay the rotten frame of their devised purgatory.

The latter visions of Malachias, Tundal, Owen, and others that lived within these last five hundred years, come not within the compass of our present enquiry : nor yet the fables that have been framed in those times, touching the lives and actions of elder saints, whereof no wise man will make any reckoning. Such, for example, is that which we read in the life of St. Brendan : that the question being moved in his hearing "whether the

sins of the dead could be redeemed by the prayers or almsdeeds of their friends remaining in this life,

in the church, he is said to have told them, that on a certain night, as he sailed on the great ocean, the soul of one Colman,

who “had been an angry monk, and a sower of discord betwixt brethren,” appeared unto him, who complaining of his grievous torments, entreated that prayers might be made to God for him,

and after six days thankfully acknowledged that by means thereof he had gotten into heaven. Whereupon it is concluded, “that the prayer of the living doth profit much the dead.”

But of St. Brendan's sea pilgrimage, we have the censure of Molanus, a learned Romanist, that there be “many apocryphal fooleries in it ; and whosoever readeth the same with any judgment, cannot choose but pronounce of it, as Photius doth of the strange narrations of Damasius, formerly mentioned ; that it containeth not only apocryphal, but also “impossible, incredible, ill-composed, and monstrous ” fooleries.

Whereof though the old legend itself were not free as by the heads thereof, touched by Glaber Rodulphus and Giraldus Cambrensis, may appear, yet for the tale that I recited out of the new legend of England, I can say, that in the manuscript books which I have met withal here, in St. Brendan's own country (one whereof was transcribed for the use of the friars minors of Kilkenny, about the year of our Lord one thousand three hundred and fifty), there is not the least footstep thereof to be seen.

(From Religion of the Ancient Irish.)

JOHN SELDEN

[John Selden (1584-1654), the only son of a yeoman, was born at Salvington on the Sussex coast, and was educated at Chichester Grammar School and at Hart Hall, Oxford. In 1604 he was admitted to the Inner Temple, where he rapidly gained a name for his antiquarian erudition In 1621 Selden, though not a member, assisted the Commons in drawing up a protest against the King's refusal to receive the petition of grievances , for this he suffered a five weeks' imprisonment. In 1624 he entered Parliament, and for twenty years took a prominent part in the struggle between Commons and Crown. In 1627 he supported Hampden in his resistance to Charles' forced loan, and the following year helped to frame the Petition of Right. For his share in the proceedings of the Parliament of 1629, when protests against tonnage and poundage were read while the Speaker was forcibly held in the chair. Selden was again imprisoned—this time for nearly two years. In the Long Parliament Selden's firm moderation opposed the zeal of the more violent reformers as well as the unwarranted pretensions of the royal prerogative. He was one of the committee appointed to draw up a remonstrance on the state of the nation ; but he voted against Strafford's impeachment, and attempted to defeat the Declaration against Episcopacy in 1641. When matters came to a head shortly after with the impeachment of the five members, Selden maintained the illegality alike of the King's Commission of Array, and of the Commons' Ordinance for the Militia. He was a member of the Assembly of Divines, in which, according to Whitelock, " Mr. Selden spake admurably, and confuted divers of them in the.r own learning." His closing years were spent under the roof of the Dowager-Countess of Kent. His library is preserved in the Bodleian, Oxford. The list of Selden's legal and Rabbinical treatises in Latin is too long for insertion here. His two principal works in English are Titles of Honour (1614), and History of Tithes (1618), which was suppressed by James I. on the ground that it denied their "divine right." The Table-Talk — collected and recorded by Selden's amanuensis, the Rev. Richard Millward—was not printed till 1689. But it seems probable, from Millward's dedication to Selden's executors, that he had prepared it for publication soon after Selden's death.]

It is by his conversation rather than by his writings that Selden claims a place in this series. Most of his learned treatises were written in Latin, and the few that are in English can hardly be regarded as specimens of English prose. Documents and

records in all languages form the body of his works. Selden does little more than arrange and cement them together. This method of writing history has evident advantages, but they are not of a literary character. In the Titles of Honour there is not one page of consecutive English. The passage quoted below— where for once he tells a legend in his own words instead of quoting the original — is the longest uninterrupted piece of English in The History of Tithes, with the exception of the preface. Selden contents himself with quoting his authorities ; for his aim in all his works is an exposition of facts, and he allows them to speak for themselves.

There is no reason to doubt Millward's statement in his dedication of the Table-Talk to Selden's friends, that “the sense and notion here is wholly his (Selden's), and most of the words.” “You will quickly perceive them to be his,” he adds, “by the familiar illustrations wherewith they are set off, and in which way you know he was so happy, that, with a marvellous delight to those that heard him, he would presently convey the highest points of religion, and the most important affairs of state, to an ordinary apprehension.” And this appeal is sustained by the evidence of Clarendon—which might serve for a description of the Table-Talk—that “in his conversation he was the most clear discoursers, and had the best faculty of making hard things easy, and of presenting them to the understanding of any man that hath been known.” The ordinary reader, ignorant of the circumstances which from time to time gave occasion to the Table-Talk, must miss the full significance of much that is contained in it. Even an apophthegm or anecdote loses half its flavour apart from context and circumstances ; and Millward, though he desires his readers to “carry along with them the When and the Why many of these things were spoken ” gives them no help. The detached notes, taken at different times over a period of twenty years, are classified under headings according to subject. It would have been better, as there was no attempt to edit them, had they been left in chronological sequence. “We can no more know,” says Selden, in one of these obiter dicta, “what a minister said in his sermon by two or three words picked out of it, than we can tell what tune a musician played last upon the lute by two or three single notes.” In some degree the same applies to these fragments of conversation. Yet, if put together as a whole the reader may trace

in them, as in a broken mirror, some reflection of Selden's personality. A greater part of them forms a commentary on the exciting events and problems of his time - prerogative, divine right, episcopacy, parliament, etc. His statements are naturally less restrained here than in his more public utterances, and serve as a key to his political position during the years in which he acted as the bulwark of the constitution and arbiter of the rights of king and of commons. His favourite text, "All is as the State pleases," gives the central principle of his political philosophy. He considers that the rights and authority of King, Church, and Commons alike take their origin from, and are subject to, "the laws of the kingdom," of which he takes the purely empirical view of a practical lawyer. Selden adds to his marvellous range of learning a wide experience of life and keen analytic powers. His usual method of exposition is to reduce the subject at issue to its simplest form, and to illustrate it by homely analogy. Take, as an example, this on "Consecrated Places." "All things are God's already; we can give him no right, by consecrating any, that he had not before, only we set it apart to his service. Just as a gardener brings his lord and master a basket of apricots and presents them, his lord thanks him, perhaps gives him something for his pains, and yet the apricots were as much his lord's before as now." For refutation he frequently uses the reductio ad absurdum, as in the following: "If we once come to leave that outloose, as to pretend conscience against law, who knows what inconvenience may follow? For thus, suppose an Anabaptist comes and takes my horse. I sue him; he tells me he did according to his conscience; his conscience tells him all things are common amongst the saints, what is mine is his; therefore you do ill to make such a law, 'If any man takes another's horse he shall be hanged.' What can I say to this man? He does according to his conscience." Selden's judgments, though occasionally betraying his dislikes, are given without acerbity or passion. He speaks with the quiet assurance of a man who knows his facts, and discusses the issues which were so deeply moving his contemporaries with the calmness of a retrospective historian. His advice in practical affairs now and then recalls the worldly wisdom of Bacon's Essays. "In a troubled state," he says in one passage, "we must do as in foul weather upon the Thames, not think to cut directly through, so the boat may be quickly full of water, but rise and fall as the

waves do, give as much as conveniently we can." And in another place he says: "'Tis not juggling that is to be blamed,

but much juggling; for the world cannot be governed without it." His humour is characteristic. At times it takes the form of

epigram, as in the following: "They talk (but blasphemously enough) that the Holy Ghost is president of their general

councils, when the truth is, the odd man is still [always] the Holy Ghost." At others, it suggests a ludicrous parallel.

"Doctor Prideaux, in his lectures, several days used arguments to prove predestination; at last he tells his auditory they are

damned that do not believe it; doing herein just like school-boys, when one of them has got an apple, or something the rest

have a mind to, they use all the arguments they can to get some of it from him. I gave you some t'other day; you shall have

some with me another time. When they cannot prevail, they tell him he's a jackanapes, a rogue, and a rascal." Selden has

the limitations of one whose feet are always planted firmly on solid earth. He is a guide, a critic; not a leader, an inspirer.

As he is untouched by the fanaticisms, he is incapable of the fine enthusiasms of his day. His remarks on poetry show no

powers of literary appreciation. Clarendon justly remarked upon his "undervaluing of style." In his writings his sentences are

usually ponderous, and often involved—a striking contrast to the homeliness and lucidity of his conversations, which, however, show

also carelessness as to form. Yet in both there is an entire absence of pedantry. Selden estimated knowledge at its true

value. "No man," he says, "is the wiser for his learning; it may administer matter to work in, or objects to work upon; but

wit and wisdom are born with a man." It is matter for regret that one who was pre-eminent in his age for both learning and

wisdom should have devoted himself so exclusively to the pursuit of the former as to leave us nothing of the latter except a few

fragments collected after his death by his secretary.

W. S. M'Cormick.

A SCHOLAR'S DEFENCE

NEITHER at all wish I that this of mine should gain any strength of truth from my name alone, but from those authorities which I have designed and brought, both for elder, late and present times, out of such both printed and manuscript Annals, Histories, Councils, Chartularies, Laws, Lawyers, and Records only as were to be used in the most accurate way of search that might furnish for the subject.

Yet also I have not neglected the able judgments of such of the learned of later time, as give light to former ages. But I so preferred the choicest and most able, that I have wholly abstained from any mention or use here of those many ignorants that (while they write) rather instruct us in their own wants of ability, than direct to anything that may satisfy.

If through ignorance I have omitted anything in the History or the Review that deserved place in them, who ever shall admonish me of it shall have a most willing acknowledgment of his learning and courtesy.

But all the bad titles that are ever due to abuse of the holiest obtestation be always my companions, if I have purposely omitted any good authority of ancient or late time, that I saw necessary, or could think might give further or other light to any position or part of it !

For I sought only Truth; and was never so far engaged in this or aught else as to torture my brains or venture my credit to make or create premisses for a chosen conclusion, that I rather would than could prove.

My premisses made what conclusions or conjectures I have, and were not bred by them. And although both of them here not a little sometimes vary from what is vulgarly received, yet that happened not at all from any desire to differ from common opinion, but from another course of disquisition than is commonly used : that is, by examination of the truth of those suppositions which patient idleness too easily takes for clear and granted.

For the old sceptics that never would profess that they had found a truth, showed yet the

best way to search for any, when they doubted as well of what

those of the dogmatical sects too credulously received for in-

fallible principles, as they did of the newest conclusions. They

were indeed questionless too nice, and deceived themselves with

the nimbleness of their own sophisms, that permitted no kind of

established truth. But plainly, he that avoids their disputing

levity, yet, being able, takes to himself their liberty of enquiry, is

in the only way that in all kinds of studies leads and lies open

even to the sanctuary of truth ; while others, that are servile to

common opinion and vulgar suppositions, can rarely hope to be

admitted nearer than into the base court of her temple, which too

speciously often counterfeits her inmost sanctuary. And to this

purpose also is that of Quintilian, most worthy of memory,

Optimus est in discendo, patronus incredulus.

(From the Preface to The History of Tithes.)

THE FIRST PAYMENT OF TITHES IN ENGLAND.

FOR the practice of payment among Christians, both Britons and

Saxons, might we believe the common tale of that Augustine,

the first Archbishop of Canterbury province, his coming to

Cometon in Oxfordshire, and doing a most strange miracle there ;

touching the establishing of the doctrine of due payment of tithes,

we should have as certain and express authority for the ancient

practice of such payment, as any other church in Christendom

can produce. But as the tale is, you shall have it, and then

censure it. About the year (they say) DC. Augustine coming to

preach at Cometon, the priest of the place makes complaint to

him, that the lord of the manor having been often admonished

by him, would yet pay him no tithes. Augustine questioning the

lord about that default in devotion, he stoutly answered, that the

tenth sheaf doubtless was his that had interest in the nine, and

therefore would pay none. Presently Augustine denounces him

excommunicate, and turning to the altar to say mass, publicly

forbad that any excommunicate person should be present at it, when

suddenly a dead corpse, that had been buried at the church door,

arose (pardon me for relating it) and departed out of the limits

of the churchyard, standing still without, while the mass con-

tinued. Which ended, Augustine comes to this living dead, and

charges him in the name of the Lord God to declare who he was.

He tells him, that in the time of the British State he was huius

villæ Patronus, and although he had been often urged by the

doctrine of the priest to pay his tithes, yet he never could be

brought to it; for which he died, he says, excommunicate, and was

carried to Hell. Augustine desired to know where the priest that

excommunicated him, was buried. This dead showed him the

place; where he makes an invocation of the dead priest, and bids

him arise also, because they wanted his help. The priest rises.

Augustine asks him, if he knew that other that was risen. He

tells him, yes; but wishes he had never known him. For (saith

he) he was in all things ever adverse to the Church, a detainer of

his tithes, and a great sinner to his death, and therefore I excom-

municated him. But Augustine publicly declares, that it was fit

mercy should be used towards him, and that he had suffered long

in Hell for his offence (you must suppose, I think, the author

meant Purgatory); wherefore he gives him absolution, and sends

him to his grave, where he fell again into dust and ashes. He

gone, the priest new risen tells, that his corpse had lain there

above clxx. years; and Augustine would gladly have had him

continue upon earth again, for instruction of souls, but could not

thereto entreat him. So he also returns to his former lodging.

The lord of the town standing by all this while, and trembling,

was now demanded if he would pay his tithes; but he presently

fell down at Augustine's feet, weeping and confessing his offence;

and receiving pardon, became all his life time a follower of Augus-

tine's. Had this legend truth in it, who could doubt, but that

payment of tithes was in practice in the infancy of the British

Church? The priest that rose from the dead, lived (if he ever

lived) about cccxxx. after Christ, and would not surely have so

taxed the lord of this manor only, if the payment had not been

usually among other good Christians here, not taught only, but

performed also. Neither need I admonish much of the authority

of it: the whole course of it directs you how to smell out the

original. Beside the common Legend of our Saints, it is in some

volumes put alone, for a most observable monument; and I found

it bound up at the end of the MS. life of Thomas Becket, Arch-

bishop of Canterbury, written by John de Grandisono; and it

remains in the public library of Oxford.

(From The History of Tithes.)

WE measure from ourselves ; and as things are for our use and

purpose, so we approve them. Bring a pear to the table that is

rotten, we cry it down, 'tis naught ; but bring a medlar that is

rotten, and 'tis a fine thing ; and yet I'll warrant you the pear

thinks as well of itself as the medlar does.

—We measure the excellency of other men by some excellency

we conceive to be in ourselves. Nash a poet, poor enough (as

poets us'd to be), seeing an alderman with his gold chain upon

his great horse, by way of scorn, said to one of his companions,

" Do you see yon fellow, how goodly, how big he looks? Why,

that fellow cannot make a blank verse."

—Nay, we measure the goodness of God from ourselves ; we

measure his goodness, his justice, his wisdom, by something we

call just, good, or wise in ourselves ; and in so doing, we judge

proportionally to the country-fellow in the play, who said if he

were a King, he would live like a lord, and have peas and bacon

every day, and a whip that cried slash.

(From the Table-Talk.)

OPINION

OPINION and affection extremely differ. I may affect a woman

best, but it does not follow I must think her the handsomest

woman in the world. I love apples best of any fruit, but it does

not follow, I must think apples to be the best fruit. Opinion is

something wherein I go about to give reason why all the world

should think as I think. Affection is a thing wherein I look after

the pleasing of myself.

—'Twas a good fancy of an old Platonic: The gods, which

are above men, had something whereof man did partake, an

intellect, knowledge, and the gods kept on their course quietly.

The beasts, which are below man, had something whereof man

did partake, sense and growth, and the beasts lived quietly in

their way. But man had something in him, whereof neither

gods nor beasts did partake, which gave him all the trouble, and

made all the confusion in the world ; and that is opinion.

—'Tis a foolish thing for me to be brought off from an opinion, in a thing neither of us know, but are led only by some cobweb-stuff ; as in such a case as this, Utrum angeli in vicem colloquantur? If I forsake my side in such a case, I show myself wonderful light, or infinitely complying, or flattering the other party: but if I be in a business of nature, and hold an opinion one way, and some man's experience has found out the contrary, I may with a safe reputation give up my side.

—'Tis a vain thing to talk of a heretic, for a man for his heart can think no otherwise than he does think. In the primitive times there were many opinions, nothing scarce but some or other held. One of these opinions being embraced by some prince, and received into his kingdom, the rest were condemned as heresies ; and his religion, which was but one of the several opinions, first is said to be orthodox, and so have continued ever since the Apostles.

(From the Same.)

LOGIC AND RHETORIC

First in your sermons use your logic, and then your rhetoric. Rhetoric without logic is like a tree with leaves and blossoms, but no root ; yet I confess more are taken with rhetoric than logic, because they are catched with a free expression, when they understand not reason. Logic must be natural, or it is worth nothing at all ; your rhetoric figures may be learned. That rhetoric is best which is most seasonable and most catching. An instance we have in that old blunt commander at Cadiz, who showed himself a good orator ; being to say something to his soldiers, which he was not used to do, he made them a speech to this purpose: “ What a shame will it be, you Englishmen, that feed upon good beef and brewess, to let those rascally Spaniards beat you, that eat nothing but oranges and lemons” ; and so put more courage into his men than he could have done with a more learned oration. Rhetoric is very good, or stark naught : there is no medium in rhetoric. If I am not fully persuaded I laugh at the orator.

(From the Same.)

LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY

[Edward Herbert (1583-1648), Lord Castle-Island (1624), Lord Herbert

of Cherbury in the Peerage of England (1629), published his most important

work, the treatise De Veritate, in 1624, and continued his philosophical

speculations in the Religio Laici (1645), and De Religione Gentilium (pub-

lished in 1663). His History of King Henry VIII. was printed in 1649.

The Autobiography was written about 1643 ("my age is now past three-

score"), and first published by Horace Walpole in 1764 A valuable edition,

with an introduction and a full historical commentary by Mr. S. L. Lee,

appeared in 1886. The Poems of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, English and

Latin, have been edited by Mr. J. Churton Collins (1881) ]

THE philosophical works of Lord Herbert of Cherbury are written

in Latin : his English prose works are his History of King Henry

VIII. and his own Life. In neither of these latter is it possible

to find much excellence of rhetoric. The History was intended

to challenge comparison with Bacon's Henry VII., but all the

labour of its author failed to secure for it anything like the spring

and liveliness of Bacon's narrative. The Autobiography cannot

be called tedious or heavy, but the author's manner is uncertain,

and there is a provoking discrepancy between the arrogant valour

of the sentiments, and the ill-cut phrases and loose construction

of the language. In a mere philosopher this negligence might

pass.

The Autobiography was edited by Horace Walpole in a spirit

of mischief. "I was resolved the world should not think I

admired it seriously, though there are really fine passages in it,

and good sense too. I drew up an equivocal preface in which

you will discover my opinion." This "equivocal preface" states

the contrast which first attracted Walpole, and which still brings

readers to the book: the contrast between the philosophical

solemnity of the author and his inexpugnable self-confidence in

respect of gallantry and the point of honour. This is what preserves his name—not the mere stories of his adventures, though they are good, nor any skill in writing; not his metaphysics nor his religious advice; but the impression of his singular character.

In that character there was no flaw: it was incapable of any suspicion of itself, and being proof against that danger it was proof against all other weakness. His metaphysical system and his moral and religious arguments are the expansion and the evolution of his individual consciousness of rectitude. From the beginning to the end of his life he is anxious to make all the world of the same mind as himself; from the beginning to the end he is vexed rather than surprised at the dulness and unreadiness of all the world in face of this opportunity of enlightenment.

He explained to the regent of the English College at Rome his tolerance of errors in religion; on his deathbed he explained to Archbishop Ussher his reasonable, tolerant, and infinitesimal desire for the last rites of the Church, and among his latest thoughts must have been one of forgiveness for Ussher, who refused the request of a gentleman so free from prejudices. More interesting than most passages in his Life of Henry VIII. is the speech introduced by him in the report of the parliament of 1529, where a nameless orator is put up to expound the doctrines of the Religio Laici and De Veritate :—

Each nation may be permitted the beliefe of any pious miracle that conduceth to God's glory; without that on this occasion we need to scandalize or offend each other. The common truths in religion formerly mentioned, being firmer bonds of unity, than that anything emergent out of traditions (whether written or unwritten) should dissolve them. Let us therefore establish and fix these catholike or universall notions. They will not hinder us to believe whatsoever else is faithfully taught upon the authority of the Church. So that whether the Eastern, Western, Northern, or Southern teachers, etc., and particularly whether my Lord of Rochester, Luther, Eccius, Zuinglius, Erasmus, Melancthon, etc., be in the right, wee laiques may so build upon these catholike and infallible grounds of religion, as whatsoever superstructures of faith be rais'd, these foundations yet may support them.

The historian does not report King Henry's opinion about this tolerant reasoner: the ghostly orator escapes.

The Life of Lord Herbert is full of adventures and of encounters with great personages. The adventures are well told; there is seldom anything very striking in the descriptions of people. King Louis XIII. and the fair maid of an inn are described more particularly than the rest: the writer has little to say of Casaubon or

Grotius, of Henry IV. or Queen Margaret. Spinola, though there is not much about him, is represented as a soldier and a gallant gentleman, whom Herbert offered to follow "if ever he did lead an army against the infidels." The fortunes and the ideas of Herbert are generally sufficient for him : he is not much interested in other people. The story comes to an end in 1624 ; the writer did not go on to tell of his difficulty in understanding what the civil war of England was all about, and of the inconvenience which it caused him.

W. P. KER.

LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY IN PARIS ;

1623, 1624

I SHALL not enter into a narration of the passages occurring in the Spanish court, upon his Highness's arrival thither, though they were well known to me for the most part, by the information the French Queen was pleased to give me, who, among other things, told me that her sister did wish well unto the prince. I had from her, also, intelligence of certain messages sent from Spain to the Pope, and the Pope's messages to them; whereof, by her permission, I did afterwards inform his Highness. Many judgments were now made concerning the event which this treaty of marriage was likely to have ; the Duke of Savoy said that the prince's journey thither was Un tiro di quelli cavallieri antichi che andavano cosi per il mondo a diffare li incanti (that it was a trick of those ancient knights-errant, who went up and down the world after that manner to undo enchantments) ; for as that Duke did believe that the Spaniard did intend finally to bestow her on the Imperial house, he conceived that he did only entertain the treaty with England, because he might avert the king my master from treating in any other place, and particularly in France, howbeit, by the intelligence I received in Paris, which I am confident was very good, I am assured the Spaniard meant really at that time, though how the match was broken, I care not here to relate, it being a more perplexed and secret business than I am willing to insert into the narration of my life.

New propositions being now made, and other counsels thereupon given, the Prince taking his leave of the Spanish court, came to St. Andrews in Spain, where, shipping himself with his train, arrived safely at Portsmouth, about the beginning of October 1623 ; the news whereof being shortly brought into France, the Duke of Guise came to me, and said he found the Spaniards were not so able men as he thought, since they had neither married

the Prince in their country, nor done anything to break his match elsewhere; I answered that the Prince was more dexterous than that any secret practice of theirs could be put upon him; and as for violence, I thought the Spaniards durst not offer it.

The war against those of the religion continuing in France, Père Séguerend, confessor to the king, made a sermon before his majesty on the text--That we should forgive our enemies; upon which argument, having said many good things, he at last distinguished forgiveness, and said: We were indeed to forgive our enemies, but not the enemies of God; such as were heretics, and particularly those of the religion; and that his Majesty, as the most Christian king, ought to extirpate them wheresoever they could be found.

This particular being related to me, I thought fit to go to the Queen-mother without further ceremony, for she gave me leave to come to her chamber whensoever I would, without demanding audience, and to tell her that though I did not usually intermeddle with matters handled within their pulpits, yet because Père Séguerend, who had the charge of the King's conscience, had spoken so violently against those of the religion, that his doctrine was not limited only to France, but might extend itself in its consequences beyond the seas, even to the dominions of the King my master; I could not but think it very unreasonable, and the rather that as her Majesty well knew that a treaty of marriage betwixt our Prince and the Princess her daughter was now begun, for which reason I could do no less than humbly desire that such doctrines as these henceforth might be silenced by some discreet admonition, she might please to give to Père Séguerend, or others that might speak to this purpose.

The Queen, though she seemed very willing to hear me, yet handled the business so, that Père Séguerend was together informed who had made this complaint against him, whereupon also he was so distempered, that by one Monsieur Gaellac, a Provençal, his own countryman, he sent me this message; that he knew well who had accused him to her Majesty, and that he was sensible thereof; that he wished me to be assured, that wheresoever I was in the world, he would hinder my fortune.

The answer I returned by Monsieur Gaellac was, that nothing in all France but a friar or a woman durst have sent me such a message.

Shortly after this, coming again to the Queen-mother, I told her that what I had said concerning Père Séguerend was spoken

with a good intention, and that my words were now discovered to

him in that manner, that he sent me a very affrionting message,

adding after a merry fashion these words, that I thought Séguerend

so malicious, that his malice was beyond the malice of women ;

the Queen, being a little startled hereat, said : A moy femme, et

parler ainsi ? to me a woman and say so ? I replied gently ; Je

parle à votre majesté comme reyne, et non pas comme femme;

I speak to your Majesty as a Queen, and not as a woman, and so

took my leave of her. What Père Séguerend did afterwards, in

the way of performing his threat, I know not ; but sure I am,

that had I been ambitious of worldly greatness, I might have often

remembered his words, though as I ever loved my book and a

private life, more than any busy preferments, I did frustrate and

render vain his greatest power to hurt me.

My book, De veritate prout distinguitur a revelatione verisimili,

possibili, et a falso, having been begun by me in England, and

formed there in all its principal parts, was about this time finished ;

all the spare hours which I could get from my visits and negocia-

tions, being employed to perfect this work, which was no sooner

done, but that I communicated it to Hugo Grotius, that great

scholar, who, having escaped his prison in the Low Countries,

came into France, and was much welcomed by me and Monsieur

Tielenus also, one of the greatest scholars of his time, who, after

they had perused it, and given it more commendations than is fit

for me to repeat, exhorted me earnestly to print and publish it ;

howbeit, as the frame of my whole book was so different from

anything which had been written heretofore, I found I must either

renounce the authority of all that had written formerly concerning

the method of finding out truth, and consequently insist upon my

own way, or hazard myself to a general censure concerning the

whole argument of my book ; I must confess it did not a little

animate me, that the two great persons above mentioned did so

highly value it, yet as I knew it would meet with much opposition,

I did consider whether it was not better for me a while to suppress

it. Being thus doubtful in my chamber, one fair day in the

summer, my casement being opened towards the south, the sun

shining clear, and no wind stirring, I took my book, De Veritate,

in my hand, and kneeling on my knees, devoutly said these

words :—

"O Thou eternal God, Author of the light which now shines

upon me, and Giver of all inward illuminations, I do beseech

LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY

181

Thee, of Thy infinite goodness, to pardon a greater request than

a sinner ought to make; I am not satisfied enough whether I

shall publish this book, De Veritate; if it be for Thy glory, I

beseech Thee give me some sign from heaven; if not, I shall

suppress it."

I had no sooner spoken these words, but a loud though gentle

noise came from the heavens, for it was like nothing on earth,

which did so comfort and cheer me, that I took my petition as

granted, and that I had the sign I demanded, whereupon also I

resolved to print my book. This, how strange soever it may seem,

I protest before the Eternal God is true, neither am I any way

superstitiously deceived herein, since I did not only clearly hear

the noise, but in the serenest sky that ever I saw, being all without cloud, did to my thinking see the place from whence it came.

And now I sent my book to be printed in Paris at my own

cost and charges, without suffering it to be divulged to others

than to such as I thought might be worthy readers of it; though

afterwards reprinting it in England, I not only dispersed it among

the prime scholars of Europe, but was sent to not only from the

nearest but furthest parts of Christendom, to desire the sight of

my book, for which they promised anything I should desire by

way of return; but hereof more amply in its place.

The treaty of a match with France continuing still, it was

thought fit for the concluding thereof, that the Earl of Carlisle

and the Earl of Holland should be sent Extraordinary Ambassadors to France.

(From the Life, last pages.)

JOHN HALES

[John Hales was born at Bath in 1584. From the Grammar School there he passed to Cambridge at the age of thirteen, and took the degree of B.A. Remarkable learning and philosophic acumen secured him a Fellowship at Merton, and, having gained distinction by his private lectures in Greek, he became Public Lecturer in the same language to the University in 1612. The following year, having been for some time in orders, he delivered a funeral oration in Latin on Sir Thomas Bodley, which was his first and only publication. The same year, he was elected a Fellow of Eton. In 1618, Hales attended the Synod of Dort, as reporter of the proceedings to Sir Dudley Carleton, English ambassador to the Hague, whose chaplain he was at the time. The speech of Episcopius, the Arminian leader there, according to Farindon, led Hales to "bid John Calvin good night." He retired to Eton on his Fellowship in 1619, and from that time till his death in 1656, he lived a hermit's life, visiting London but seldom, although his company was much desired in Ben Jonson's "Apollo." He formed a fine collection of books, and enjoyed the reputation of great learning Laud made him a canon of Windsor in 1629. Two years later, however, he was deprived by the Parliamentary Committee, and, in 1649, he lost his Fellowship. He was able, however, to support himself and other deprived scholars till his death, out of the proceeds of the sale of his library.]

Among the English rationalists of the seventeenth century, the "ever memorable" John Hales of Eton is in a manner overshadowed by the greater figure which Falkland makes in history ; his memory suffers, in comparison even with Chillingworth's, in consequence of his extreme reticence. Yet in strict temporal sequence, Hales precedes both in the line of spiritual descent from Colet, Cranmer, and Hooker. And he yields to neither—who, though much younger men, predeceased him—in scholarship, or in clearness of mental vision. The materials for an estimate of Hales are, indeed, scanty. He himself published nothing but his funeral oration on Sir Thomas Bodley. His Works in three volumes, which Lord Hailes edited in 1765, contain, besides merely occasional tracts, including the famous On Schism and Schismaticks,

sermons, and his letters from the Synod of Dort. Still, even if not a line of his had survived we should be obliged to accept the testimony offered as to his exceptional scholarship by Clarendon, Bishop Pearson, Andrew Marvell, Dr. Heylin, and Bishop Stillingfleet. Anthony Wood styles him "a walking library." In the brief passage which may be styled his apologia he wrote, "The pursuit of truth hath been my only care, ever since I understood the meaning of the word. For this I have forsaken all hopes, all desires, all friends which might bias me, and hinder me from driving right at what I aimed." Clarendon furnished the complement of his character in words which he gives out to be Hales's own :—" His opinions, he was sure, did him no harm, but he was far from being confident that they might not do others harm who entertained them, and might entertain other results from them than he did. There is then no mystery about the lifelong seclusion and reticence of 'one of the clearest heads and best prepared hearts of Christendom.'" It is easy enough to discern the genesis of his quiescent temper, if not of his thirst for truth in his early experience of theological controversy at Dort. Hales began his report of the proceedings with a strong Calvinistic bias, and though he could never quite cast off his prejudices against the (Arminian) Remonstrants his tone was in the later letters distinctly modified. Yet he left the Synod—as he had entered it, a Calvinist. Though he professed to "bid Calvin good night," he did not, as the late Principal Tulloch puts it, "say good morning to Arminius." He came away from Dort disgusted with the violence of the dogmatic disputations he had listened to, and convinced that truth could not be compressed into creed or system. He went straight into residence at Eton, and, for seventeen years he, of his own freewill, gave no writing to the world. Two Latin treatises, dated respectively 1628 and 1633, which have been attributed to him, but without warrant, are worthy of notice because they provide the ground for the untrue charge of Socinianism brought against him, chiefly by Anthony Wood. The tract On Schism and Schismaticks appears to have been written about 1636, most probably for the benefit of Chillingworth, whose Religion of Protestants appeared in the following year. It was little more than a brief categorical statement of what he had long been in the habit of maintaining in conversation—that it was only pride and passion which kept Christendom from agreeing upon such a liturgy as might bring the world into

one communion. “Why may I not go,” he asked, “if occasion require, into an Arian church, so there be no Arianism expressed in their liturgy?” Schisms, he held, had crept into the Church by one of three ways, upon matter of fact, upon matter of opinion, or upon a point of ambition. The kernel of the tract was the contention “that in cases of separation among Christians those who would impose burdens on others, and enforce an unnecessary conformity, were really responsible for the schism, and that episcopal ambition had been the great cause of frequent, continuous, and bloody schisms.” But Hales's clearness of mental sight and rational thoroughness are really nowhere so manifest as in the posthumously published tract On the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper. He assailed Protestants as well as Catholics for holding that the words of consecration were anything but “a mere trope.” Turning to the question whether the Church might err in fundamentals, he poured contempt on the doctrine of the Infallibility of Councils. “It was never heard,” he said, “in any profession that the conclusion of truth went by plurality of voices, the Christian profession only excepted; and I have often mused how it comes to pass that the way which in all other sciences is not able to warrant the poorest conclusion, should be thought sufficient to give authority to conclusions in divinity, the supremest empress of sciences.” Hales is most distinctively modern, perhaps, in his sermon Of Enquiry and Private Judgment in Religion. Infallibility was, he argued, not a favour peculiar to any one man; all must have it. A man must know not only what he has to believe, but why he has to believe. Hales's literary style is, in the main, the reflection of his lucid manner of thinking. When he argues, he goes straight to the point, and, barring a certain looseness in the construction of his sentences, he is a master of exposition. His illustrations, though copious, never weary the reader, being always the natural overflow of a mind well stocked with learning, and not a mere display of pedantry. There runs through his writings a thin thread of humour characteristic of the man—himself in earnest, but scorning the earnestness about non-essentials which he discovers in others.

W. WALLACE.

ALL DIFFERENCES DO NOT INVOLVE SCHISM

IT hath been the common disease of Christians from the beginning, not to content themselves with that measure of faith, which God and the Scriptures have expressly afforded us ; but out of a vain desire to know more than is revealed, they have attempted to discuss things, of which we can have no light, neither from reason nor revelation ; neither have they rested here, but upon pretence of church authority, which is none, or tradition, which for the most part is but figment ; they have peremptorily concluded, and confidently imposed upon others, a necessity of entertaining conclusions of that nature ; and to strengthen themselves, have broken out into divisions and factions, opposing man to man, synod to synod, till the peace of the church vanished, without all possibility of recall. Hence arose those ancient and many separations amongst Christians occasioned by Arianism, Eutychianism, Nestorianism, Photinianism, Sabellianism, and many more both ancient and in our time ; all which indeed are but names of schism, howsoever in the common language of the fathers, they were called heresies. For heresy is an act of the will, not of reason ; and is indeed a lie, not a mistake : else how could that known speech of Austin go for true : Errare possum, hæreticus esse nolo ? Indeed, Manichæism, Valentinianism, Marcionism, Mahometanism, are truly and properly heresies ; for we know that the authors of them received them not, but minted them themselves, and so knew that which they taught to be a lie. But can any man avouch that Arius and Nestorius, and others that taught erroneously concerning the Trinity, or the person of our Saviour, did maliciously invent what they taught, and not rather fall upon it by error and mistake? Till that be done, and that upon good evidence, we will think no worse of all parties than needs we must, and take these rents in the church to be at the worst but schisms upon matter of opinion. In which case what we are to

do, is not a point of any great depth of understanding to discover, so be distemper and partiality do not intervene. I do not yet see, that opinionum varietas, et opinantium unitas, are ἀσίστατα; or that men of different opinions in Christian religion, may not hold communion in sacris, and both go to one church. Why may I not go, if occasion require, to an Arian church, so there be no Arianism expressed in their liturgy? And were liturgies and public forms of service so framed as that they admitted not of particular and private fancies, but contained only such things, as in which all Christians do agree, schisms on opinion were utterly vanished. For consider of all the liturgies that are or ever have been, and remove from them whatsoever is scandalous to any party, and leave nothing but what all agree on; and the event shall be, that the public service and honour of God shall no ways suffer: whereas to load our public forms with the private fancies upon which we differ, is the most sovereign way to perpetuate schism unto the world's end. Prayer, confession, thanksgiving, reading of Scriptures, exposition of Scripture, administration of sacraments in the plainest and simplest manner, were matter enough to furnish out a sufficient liturgy, though nothing either of private opinion, or of church pomp, of imagery, of music, of matter concerning the dead, of many superfluities, which creep into the churches under the name of order and decency, did interpose itself. For to charge churches and liturgies with things unnecessary, was the first beginning of all superstition; and when scruples of conscience began to be made or pretended, then schisms began to break in. If the spiritual guides and fathers of the Church would be a little sparing of incumbering churches with superfluities, and not over rigid, either in reviving obsolete customs, or imposing new, there were far less danger of schism or superstition; and all the inconvenience were likely to ensue would be but this, they should in so doing yield a little to the imbecilities of inferiors, a thing which St. Paul would never have refused to do. Meanwhile, wheresoever false or suspected opinions are made a piece of the church-liturgy, he that separates is not the schismatic; for it is alike unlawful to make profession of known or suspected falsehoods, as to put in practice unlawful or suspected actions.

(From A Tract concerning Schism and Schismatics.)

Now to remove you yet a little further from this fancy of casting yourself into the arms of others, and to conciliate you the more to God and your reason, I will open one thing farther unto you, which is this, That you put off the care of your faith and religion from yourselves on other men sundry ways, when you think you do nothing less ; for when we plead for the truth of our profession, and appeal either to our education or breeding, " thus we have been taught" ; or to antiquity, " thus have our ancients delivered unto us" ; or to universality, " this hath been the doctrine generally received" ; or to synods, councils, and consent of churches, " this is the doctrine established by ecclesiastical authority" : all these are nothing else but deceitful forms of shifting the account and reason of our faith and religion from ourselves, and casting it upon the back of others. I will shew it you by the particular examination of every one of these ; which I will the willinger do, because I see these are the common hackney reasons which most men use in flattering themselves in their mistakes ; for all this is nothing else but man's authority thrust upon us under divers shapes. For, first of all, education and breeding is nothing else but the authority of our teachers taken over our childhood. Now there is nothing which ought to be of less force with us, or which we ought more to suspect : for childhood hath one thing natural to it, which is a great enemy to truth, and a great furtherer of deceit ; what is that ? Credulity. Nothing is more credulous than a child : and our daily experience shows how strangely they will believe either their ancients, or one another, in most incredible reports. For, to be able to judge what persons, what reports are credible, is a point of strength, of which that age is not capable ; " The chiefest sinew and strength of wisdom," saith Epicharmus, " is not easily to believe." Have we not then great cause to call to better account, and examine by better reason, whatsoever we learnt in so credulous and easy an age, so apt, like the softest wax, to receive every impression ? Yet notwithstanding this singular weakness, and this large and real exception which we have against education, I verily persuade myself, that if the best and strongest ground of most men's religion were opened, it would appear to be nothing else.

Secondly, Antiquity, what is it else (God only expected) but man's authority born some ages before us? Now for the truth of things, time makes no alteration; things are still the same they are, let the time be past, present, or to come. Those things which we reverence for antiquity, what were they at their first birth? were they false? time cannot make them true; were they true? time cannot make them more true. The circumstance therefore of time, in respect of truth and error, is merely impertinent. Yet thus much must I say for antiquity, that amongst all these balancing and halting proofs, if truth have any advantage against error and deceit, it is here. For there is an antiquity which is proper to truth, and in which error can claim no part; but then it must be an antiquity most ancient. This cannot be but true, for it is God, and God is truth. All other parts of antiquity, deceit and falsehood will lay claim to as well as truth. Most certain it is, truth is more ancient than error; for error is nothing else but deviation and swerving from the truth. Were not truth therefore first, there could be no error, since there could be no swerving from that which is not. When therefore antiquity is pleaded for the proof of any conclusion commended to you for true, be you careful to know whether it be most ancient, yea or no: if it be so, then is it an invincible proof, and pleads for nothing but the truth; if otherwise, though it be as ancient, I say not as Inachus, but as Satan himself, yet it is no proof of truth.

Thirdly, Universality is such a proof of truth, as truth itself is ashamed of; for universality is nothing but a quainter and a trimmer name to signify the multitude. Now human authority at the strongest is but weak, but the multitude is the weakest part of human authority; it is the great patron of error, most easily abused, and most hardly disabused. The beginning of error may be, and mostly is, from private persons, but the maintainer and continuer of error is the multitude. Private persons first beget errors in the multitude, and make them public; and publicness of them begets them again in private persons. It is a thing which our common experience and practice acquaints us with, that when some private persons have gained authority with the multitude, and infused some error into them, and made it public, the publicness of the error gains authority to it, and interchangeably prevails with private persons to entertain it. The most singular and strongest part of human authority is properly in the wisest and most virtuous; and these, I trow, are not the most

universal. If truth and goodness go by universality and multitude, what mean then the prophets and holy men of God everywhere in Scripture so frequently, so bitterly, to complain of the small number of good men, careful of God and truth ? Neither is the complaint proper to Scripture, it is the common complaint of all that have left any records of antiquity behind them. Could wishing do any good, I could wish well to this kind of proof; but it will never go so well with mankind that the most shall be the best. The best that I can say of argument and reason drawn from universality and multitude, is this, such reason may, perchance, well serve to excuse an error, but it can never serve to warrant a truth.

Fourthly, Councils and synods, and consent of churches, these indeed may seem of some force, they are taken to be the strongest weapons which the church had fought with ; yet this is still human authority after another fashion ; let me add one thing, that the truth hath not been more relieved by these than it hath been distressed. At the council at Nice met 318 bishops to defend the divinity of the Son of God ; but at Ariminum met well near 600 bishops to deny it. I ask then, What gained the truth here by a synod ? Certainly in the eye of reason it more endangered it ; for it discovered the advantage that error had among the multitude above the truth ; by which reason truth might have been greatly hazarded. I have read that the nobility of Rome, upon some fancy or other, thought fit, that all servants should wear a kind of garment proper to them, that so it might be known who were servants, who were freemen : but they were quickly weary of this conceit ; for perceiving in what multitudes servants were in most places, they feared that the singularity of their garment might be an item to them to take notice of their multitude, and to know their own strength, and so at length take advantage of it against their masters. This device of calling councils was but like that fancy of the Roman gentlemen ; for many times it might well have proved a great means to have endangered the truth, by making the enemies thereof to see their own strength, and work upon that advantage ; for it is a speedy way to make them to see that, which for the most part is very true, that there are more which run against the truth, than with it.

(From Private Judgement in Religion.)

WILLIAM DRUMMOND

[William Drummond (1585-1649) was educated at the High School, and at the recently founded University of Edinburgh. After some years of law study on the Continent, he in 1610 succeeded his father as laird of Hawthornden. There he spent a life of quiet seclusion, in study and in composition, at first mainly poetical, His notes, and the catalogue of his library, show that he was a student of Greek, Latin, Italian, and French, and a diligent reader of the English writers of his time. In 1618 he was visited by Ben Jonson, of whose conversations he took careful notes. In 1623, after a serious illness, Drummond published A Cypress Grove, a philosophical meditation on Death. The popularity of this work is proved by the publication of a second edition in 1630. It was probably the connection of his family with the Stuarts, by the marriage of Robert III. with Annabella Drummond, that impelled him to take up the History of Scotland during the Reigns of the Five Jameses. The troubles which preceded the Civil War drew from him a number of contributions, advocating a mediating policy from the royalist side. The best of these are Irene, or a Remonstrance for Concord, Amity, and Love (1638), and Σκιamaχia (1643) ; but they were not allowed more than a MS. circulation. In spite of his reputation as a malignant, Drummond did not suffer seriously at the hands of the later Presbyterian tyranny. The defeat of his friend Montrose at Philiphaugh (1645) crushed his last hope of a settled government, and his remaining years were clouded by despondency and failing health. He died in December 1649.

A Cypress Grove is Drummond's only prose work that was published in his lifetime. The History of the Jameses was printed in 1655, with several "Memorials of State," and a few letters ; his royalist tracts were first included in the collected edition of 1711. Extracts from Drummond's unpublished manuscripts were printed by Laing in the Archæologia Scotica, iv. 57-110, 224-270.]

A Cypress Grove is a remarkable, and in some respects unique, example of sonorous poetic prose. Detached passages of similar eloquence are to be found in the prose of Drummond's contemporaries and immediate successors ; none of them has maintained the same height of imaginative contemplation throughout a piece of equal length. A Cypress Grove is the first original work in which an English writer has deliberately set himself to make

prose do service for poetry. It is a dignified “Meditation upon Death,” tinged with melancholy; and the whole has unity of tone and conception. Opening with a picture of his fears as “in the quiet solitariness of the night” he thinks “on the last of human terrors,” the author reflects upon the necessity and universality of death; upon the vexations, disasters, indignities, and meanness of life–where beauty, greatness, knowledge, are but vanity, “on so small a round as is this earth, and bounded with so short a course of time”; where to die young is to leave the feast before satiety; where fame is defeated by oblivion. Then, from these purely mundane views, he breaks into a train of idealistic thoughts which are put into the form of an apostrophe to his soul. Having at last fallen asleep, he sees in a dream the vision of a lost friend who reveals to him the meaning of death and the joys of eternity.

A Cypress Grove is, therefore, not a series of “dispersed meditations,” as Bacon defines his “Essay”; nor is its argument intended as a chain of connected reasoning. The meditation is imaginatively conceived; it is presented as the expression of an individual mood, rising to a natural climax, and placed in an artistic setting.

This essential character of the work has been neglected by some of its critics. It has been objected that its argument is one-sided; that the author has not given a more wholesome and bracing view of life as the scene of joyous and passionate endeavour. This is no doubt true; yet the objection is beside the mark. For it applies an alien standard to what is not an essay, but a reverie. It blames what is practically a poem on resignation to death for not depicting the joys of life. One might as reasonably complain that Milton had not mingled the moods of L’Allegro and Il Penseroso. The critic is not called upon to refute poetical reflections by formal logic. His true criterion is congruity. And it is part of the success of A Cypress Grove that no dissonant note mars its pensive melancholy.

The most characteristic qualities of Drummond’s style are wealth of imagery, variety of sentence-structure, and rhythmic flow. His metaphors are apt and pregnant; he uses similes less frequently than the writers of his age, and seldom draws them out beyond a line. The antithesis of some of the apophthegms which break the continuity of his periods is not over-strained. Two cases of word-play occur, but they are venial. The composition, though carefully elaborated, is seldom laboured or overcharged with ornament; and his ear is rarely, if ever, betrayed into a pre-

ference of sound to sense. The even pitch of subdued elocquence

at which the style is maintained would prove monotonous but for

the ever-changing and contrasting formation of the sentences.

This skilful variation of construction, by diversifying the length

and cadence of the clauses, gives to the pages of A Cypress Grove

the peculiar charm of richly modulated music.

Drummond's idealistic bent is seen in the recurrence of certain

ideas—at times of phrases and allusions. The pettiness of earthly

life is a constant refrain. The earth is “a mote of dust encircled

by a pond”; another time, “an anthill, and men as many pismires

and grasshoppers.” Again, “This globe of the earth, which

seemeth huge to us, in respect of the universe and compared with

that wide pavilion of heaven, is less than little, of no sensible

quantity, and but as a point.” He returns more than once to

the image of the Ptolemaic cosmos for his conception of “the

All.”

On a theme so common among the Elizabethan writers, it is

not strange that Drummond's treatment should occasionally echo

theirs. In the Platonic apostrophe to his soul one is reminded

of Spenser's Hymn to Beauty, and his stanzas on Mutability.

Passages here and there seem to be paraphrases or expansions

of the monologues of Hamlet and of Prospero. There is even at

times a similarity of phrase, as in “The goodly fabric of this

world,” “This fair and admirable frame,” “The rank weeds in

this garden of the world,” and in the recurring comparisons of the

world to a stage, of life to a dream, and of death to sleep.

Drummond was, as his library shows, a diligent reader of the

English literature of his time; yet these parallels may be acci-

dental. But the exact reproduction of some of Bacon's phrases

in his Essay on Death proves that this at least had been closely

studied. In the following—“So do little children fear to go in

the dark, and their fear is increased with tales”; “Death nor

painful is, nor evil, except in contemplation of the cause”—the

parts italicised are transcripts of the words in Bacon's two opening

sentences. When Drummond speaks of death as “being of itself

as indifferent as birth,” and of “the marble colours of obsequies,

weeping and funeral pomp,” adding “much more ghastliness unto

it than otherwise it hath,” he paraphrases Bacon more loosely.

But Bacon's sentence (in the 1612 edition), “There is no passion

in the mind of man so weak, but masters the fear of death,” is

copied as literally as Drummond's context will allow. It must

VOL. II

194

ENGLISH PROSE

not be supposed, however, that these coincidences detract from

the originality of A Cypress Grove. The contrast between

Drummond's and Bacon's works has been already emphasised.

Mr. Masson's comparison of A Cypress Grove with Hydrio-

taphia has been repeated by later critics. Beyond the similarity

of subject there is little.or nothing upon which to base it. No

resemblance is traceable between the learning and wit of Sir

Thomas Browne's reflections on ancient burial rites, and the poetic

melancholy of Drummond. Had Browne read A Cypress Grove

he might have applied to the author words from his Urn-Burial :

" Many are too early old "; " Pious spirits who pass their days

in raptures of futurity, make little more of this world than the

world that was before it". The idealistic creed common to both

writers affords some parallels of thought among the concluding

pages of the Religio Medici. But the healthy zest in life of

the busy physician is a contrast to the relaxing introspection

of the recluse of Hawthornden ; and their styles, where it is

possible to compare them, reflect the difference between their

characters.

A Cypress Grove was written under the inspiration of affliction

and depression, when, as we learn from a letter to Sir William

Alexander, " The loss of friends had estranged him from himself,"

and after he had

" Twice been at the doors of death,

And twice found shut those gates which ever mourn."

It was published with his " Flowers of Zion," its counterpart in

verse. We have no previous prose of his except some notes and

letters, and his later writings are disappointing. The History of

the Five Jameses, much the longest of his works, is a dull and

commonplace chronicle, of no historical and small literary value.

His Irene and Σκιαμαχία contain some trenchant pages ; but, with

the rest of his tracts, their main interest consists in their revela-

tion of Drummond's attitude during the political and ecclesiastical

troubles through which he lived. He longed, like the saner spirits

of his time, for tolerance and peace ; and, though a royalist, he

did not scruple on occasion to criticise the policy of Charles.

Though Drummond's life, except for a few short intervals, was

spent in Scotland, his work belongs properly to English literature.

The pure Scots dialect had in his time almost fallen out of literary

use. Even Knox's prose is anglicised, and the Union of the

Crowns had completed what the Reformation had begun. Drummond's friend, Sir William Alexander, with the other Scottish poets who had followed James to his English court, had taken English models for their verses. But Drummond may be regarded as the earliest prose writer in Scotland who uses English as a mother-tongue; for James, even in his later work, occasionally falls back on a northern word or idiom. As in his sonnets he attaches himself to the school of Spenser, so his prose has its place alongside that of Sidney, Raleigh, and Bacon. He was the one star in the “Σκοτία Scotorum” of his age : a late survival of the Scottish renaissance which had already disappeared before the reforming zeal of presbyteries.

W. S. M'CORMICK.

A REVERIE ON DEATH

Having often and diverse times, when I had given myself to rest in the quiet solitariness of the night, found my imagination troubled with a confused fear, or sorrow or horror, which, interrurpting sleep, did astonish my senses, and rouse me all appalled, and transported in a sudden agony and amazedness : of such an unaccustomed perturbation not knowing, not being able to dive into any apparent cause, carried away with the stream of my then doubting thoughts, I began to ascribe it to that secret foreknowledge and presaging power of the prophetic mind, and to interpret such an agony to be to the spirit, as a sudden faintness and universal weariness useth to be to the body, a sign of following sickness ; or as winter lightnings, earthquakes, and monsters are to commonwealths and great cities, harbingers of wretched events, and emblems of their sudden destinies.

Hereupon, not thinking it strange, if whatsoever is human should befall me, knowing how providence overcomes grief, and discountenances crosses ; and that, as we should not despair in evils which may happen to us, we should not be too confident, nor lean much to those goods we enjoy ; I began to turn over in my remembrance all that could afflict miserable mortality, and to forecast everything which could beget gloomy and sad apprehensions, and with a mask of horror show itself to human eyes : till in the end, as by unities and points mathematicians are brought to great numbers and huge greatness, after many fantastical glances of the woes of mankind, and those incumbrances which follow upon life, I was brought to think, and with amazement, on the last of human terrors, or (as one termed it) the last of all dreadful and terrible evils, Death.

For to easy censure it would appear, that the soul, if it can foresee that divorcement which it is to have from the body, should not without great reason be thus over-grieved, and plunged in inconsolable and unaccustomed sorrow: considering their near union,

long familiarity and love, with the great change, pain, and ugliness, which are apprehended to be the inseparable attendants of Death.

They had their being together, parts they are of one reasonable creature, the harming of the one is the weakening of the working of the other. What sweet contentments doth the soul enjoy by the senses ! They are the gates and windows of its knowledge, the organs of its delight. If it be tedious to an excellent player on the lute, to abide but a few months the want of one, how much more the being without such noble tools and engines be painful to the soul? And if two pilgrims which have wandered some few miles together, have a heart's-grief when they are near to part, what must the sorrow be at parting of two so loving friends and never-loathing lovers, as are the body and soul?

Death is the violent estranger of acquaintance, the eternal divorcer of marriage, the ravisher of the children from the parents, the stealer of parents from their children, the interrer of fame, the sole cause of forgetfulness, by which the living talk of those gone away as of so many shadows or age-worn stories. All strength by it is enfecbled, beauty turned into deformity and rottenness, honour into contempt, glory into baseness. It is the reasonless breaker off of all actions, by which we enjoy no more the sweet pleasures of earth, nor contemplate the stately revolutions of the heavens. The sun perpetually setteth, stars never rise unto us : It in one moment robbeth us of what with so great toil and care in many years we have heaped together : By this are succession of lineages cut short, kingdoms left heirless, and greatest states orphaned : It is not overcome by pride, soothed by flattery, tamed by entreaties, bribed by benefits, softened by lamentations, nor diverted by time. Wisdom, save this, can prevent and help everything. By Death we are exiled from this fair city of the world : it is no more a world unto us, nor we any more a people unto it. The ruins of fanes, palaces, and other magnificent frames yield a sad prospect to the soul ; and how should it without horror view the wreck of such a wonderful masterpiece as is the body?

That Death naturally is terrible and to be abhorred, it cannot well and altogether be denied, it being a privation of life, and a not being ; and every privation being abhorred of nature, and evil in itself, the fear of it too being ingenerated universally in all creatures. Yet I have often thought that even naturally, to a mind by nature only resolved and prepared, it is more terrible in

conceit than in verity, and at the first glance than when well pryed into ; and that rather by the weakness of our fantasy than by what is in it ; and that the marble colours of obsequies, weeping, and funeral pomp (which we ourselves paint it with) did add much more ghastliness unto it than otherwise it hath. To aver which conclusion, when I had gathered my wandering thoughts, I began thus with myself.

If on the great theatre of this earth among the numberless number of men, to die were only proper to thee and thine, then undoubtedly thou had reason to repine at so severe and partial a law. But since it is a necessity, from which never any age by-past hath been exempted, and unto which they which be, and so many as are to come, are thralled (no consequent of life being more common and familiar), why shouldst thou with unprofitable and nought-availing stubbornness, oppose so inevitable and necessary a condition?

This is the high-way of morality, and our general home: Behold what millions have trod it before thee, what multitudes shall after thee, with them which at that same instant run. In so universal a calamity (if Death be one) private complaints cannot be heard : with so many royal palaces, it is no loss to see thy poor cabin burn.

Shall the heavens stay their ever-rolling wheels (for what is the motion of them but the motion of a swift and ever-whirling wheel, which twineth forth and again uprolleth our life), and hold still time to prolong thy miserable days, as if the highest of their working were to do homage unto thee?

Thy death is a pace of the order of this All, a part of the life of this world ; for while the world is the world, some creatures must die, and others take life. Eternal things are raised far above this sphere of generation and corruption, where the first matter, like an ever flowing and ebbing sea, with divers waves, but the same water, keepeth a restless and never tiring current ; what is below in the universality of the kind, not in itself doth abide :

Man a long line of years hath continued, This man every hundred is swept away. This globe environed with air is the sole region of Death, the grave where everything that taketh life must rot, the stage of fortune and change, only glorious in the inconstancy and varying alterations of it, which though many, seem yet to abide one, and being a certain entire one, are ever many.

The never agreeing bodies of the elemental brethren turn one into another ; the earth changeth her countenance with the seasons, sometimes looking

cold and naked, other times hot and flowery : nay, I cannot tell how, but even the lowest of those celestial bodies, that mother of months, and empress of seas and moisture, as if she were a mirror of our constant mutability, appeareth (by her too great nearness unto us) to participate of our changes, never seeing us twice with that same face; now looking black, then pale and wan, sometimes again in the perfection and fulness of her beauty shining over us. Death no less than life doth here act a part, the taking away of what is old being the making way for what is young. This earth is as a table-book, and men are the notes ; the first are washen out, that new may be written in. They who fore-went us did leave a room for us, and should we grieve to do the same to those which should come after us ? Who, being suffered to see the exquisit rarities of an antiquary's cabinet, is grieved that the curtain be drawn, and to give place to new pilgrims ? And when the Lord of this Universe hath shewed us the amazing wonders of his various frame, should we take it to heart, when he thinketh time, to dislodge ? This is his unalterable and inevitable decree : As we had no part of our will in our entrance into this life, we should not presume to any in our leaving it, but soberly learn to will that which he wills, whose very will giveth being to all that it wills ; and reverencing the Orderer, not repine at the order and laws, which al-where and always are so perfectly established, that who would essay to correct and amend any of them, he should either make them worse, or desire things beyond the level of possibility. All that is necessary and convenient for us, He hath bestowed upon us, and freely granted ; and what He hath not bestowed or granted us, neither is it necessary nor convenient that we should have it.

If thou dost complain that there shall be a time in which thou shalt not be, why dost thou not also grieve that there was a time in which thou was not ; and so that thou art not as old as that enlivening planet of time? For not to have been a thousand years before this moment, is as much to be deplored, as not to live a thousand after it, the effect of them both being one: that will be after us, which, long long before we were, was. Our children's children have that same reason to murmur, that they were not young men in our days, which we have to complain that we shall not be old in theirs. The violets have their time, though they impurple not the winter, and the roses keep their season, though they disclose not their beauty in the spring.

Empires, states, and kingdoms have, by the doom of the supreme Providence, their fatal periods; great cities lie sadly buried in their dust; arts and sciences have not only their eclipses, but their wanings and deaths. The ghastly wonders of the world, raised by the ambition of ages, are overthrown and trampled: some lights above, not idly entitled stars, are lost, and never more seen of us: the excellent fabric of this universe itself shall one day suffer ruin, or a change like ruin; and should poor earthlings thus to be handled complain?

But that, perhaps, which anguisheth thee most, is to have this glorious pageant of the world removed from thee in the spring and most delicious season of thy life; for though to die be usual, to die young may appear extraordinary. If the present fruition of these things be unprofitable and vain, what can a long continuance of them be? If God had made life happier, he had also made it longer. Stranger and new halcyon, why wouldst thou longer nestle amidst these unconstant and stormy waves? Hast thou not already suffered enough of this world, but thou must yet endure more? To live long, is it not to be long troubled? But number thy years, which are now —— and thou shalt find that whereas ten have outlived thee, thousands have not attained this age. One year is sufficient to behold all the magnificence of nature, nay, even one day and night; for more is but the same brought again. This sun, that moon, these stars, the varying dance of the spring, summer, autumn, winter, is that very same which the Golden Age did see. They which have the longest time lent them to live in, have almost no part of it at all, measuring it either by the space of time which is past, when they were not, or by that which is to come. Why shouldst thou then care, whether thy days be many or few, which, when prolonged to the utmost, prove, paralleled with eternity, as a tear is to the ocean? To die young is to do that soon, and in some fewer days, which once thou must do; it is but the giving over of a game, that after never so many hazards must be lost. When thou hast lived to that age thou desirest, or one of Plato's years, so soon as the last of thy days riseth above thy horizon, thou wilt then, as now, demand longer respite, and expect more to come. The oldest are most unwilling to die. It is hope of long life that maketh life seem short. Who will behold, and with the eye of judgment behold, the many changes attending human

affairs, with the after-claps of fortune, shall never lament to die young. Who knows what alterations and sudden disasters in outward estate or inward contentments, in this wilderness of the world, might have befallen him who dieth young, if he had lived to be old? Heaven foreknowing imminent harms, taketh those which it loves to itself before they fall forth. Death in youth is like the leaving a superfluous feast before the drunken cups be presented. Pure, and (if we may so say) virgin souls carry their bodies with no small agonies, and delight not to remain long in the dregs of human corruption, still burning with a desire to turn back to the place of their rest; for this world is their inn, and not their home. That which may fall forth every hour, cannot fall out of time. Life is a journey on a dusty way, the furthest rest is Death, in this some go more heavily burdened than others: Swift and active pilgrims come to the end of it in the morning or at noon, which tortoise-paced wretches, clogged with the fragmentary rubbish of this world, scarce with great travail crawl unto at midnight. Days are not to be esteemed after the number of them, but after the goodness. More compass maketh not a sphere more complete, but as round is a little as a large ring; nor is that musician most praiseworthy who hath longest played, but he in measured accents who hath made sweetest melody. To live long hath often been a let to live well. Muse not how many years thou mightest have enjoyed life, but how sooner thou mightest have losed it; neither grudge so much that it is no better, as comfort thyself that it hath been no worse. Let it suffice that thou hast lived till this day, and (after the course of this world) not for nought thou hast had some smiles of fortune, favours of the worthiest, some friends, and thou hast never been disfavoured of Heaven.

As those images were pourtrayed in my mind (the morning star now almost arising in the East), I found my thoughts in a mild and quiet calm; and not long after, my senses, one by one, forgetting their uses, began to give themselves over to rest, leaving me in a still and peaceable sleep, if sleep it may be called, when the mind awaking is carried with free wings from our fleshly bondage. For heavy lids had not long covered their lights, when I thought, nay sure, I was, where I might discern all in this great All, the large compass of the rolling circles, the brightness and continual motion of those rubies of the night, which by their

distance here below cannot be perceived ; the silver-countenance

of the wandering Moon, shining by another's light ; the hanging

of the Earth, as environed with a girdle of crystal ; the Sun

enthronised in the midst of the planets, eye of the heavens, and

gem of this precious ring, the World. But whilst with wonder

and amazement I gazed on those celestial splendours and the

beaming lamps of that glorious temple, like a poor country man

brought from his solitary mountains and flocks to behold the

magnificence of some great city, there was presented to my sight

a Man, as in the spring of years, with that self-same grace,

comely features, and majestic look, which the late —— was wont

to have ; on whom I had no sooner set mine eyes, when (like one

planet-stricken) I became amazed : But he, with a mild demeanour,

and voice surpassing all human sweetness, appeared (me thought)

to say :

"What is it doth thus anguish and trouble thee? Is it the

remembrance of Death, the last period of wretchedness, and entry

to these happy places ; the lantern which lightneth men to see

the mystery of the blessedness of Spirits, and that glory which

transcendith the curtain of things visible? Is thy fortune below

on that dark globe (which scarce by the smallness of it appeareth

here) so great, that thou are heart-broken and dejected to leave

it? What if thou wert to leave behind thee a —— so glorious in

the eye of the world (yet but a mote of dust encircled with a pond)

as that of mine, so loving——, such great hopes, these had been

apparent occasions for lamenting ; and but apparent. Dost thou

think thou leav'st life too soon? Death is best young. Things

fair and excellent are not of long endurance upon earth. Who

liveth well liveth long. Souls most beloved of their Maker are

soonest relieved from their bleeding cares of life, and most

swiftly wafted through the surges of human miseries.Opinion,

that great enchantress and poiser of things, not as they are but as

they seem, hath not in anything more than in the conceit of

Death, abused man : who must not measure himself, and esteem

his estate, after his earthly being, which is but as a dream ; for,

though he be born on the earth, he is not born for the earth,

more than the embryo for the mother's womb. It complaineth

to be delivered of its bands, and to come to the light of this world ;

and man bewaileth to be loosed from the chains with which he is

fettered in that valley of vanities."

(From A Cypress Grove.)

GEORGE HERBERT

[George Herbert (1593-1633), the fifth of seven sons of Richard Herbert,

of the famous Monmouthshire family of that name, was educated at West-

minster School, and Trinity College, Cambridge, where he graduated in 1611,

and became Fellow in 1615. In 1619 he was elected Public Orator for the

University, in the discharge of the duties of which office he attracted the

attention of King James, who appointed him to a sinecure office of £120 a

year. The death of many friends, and later of the king, having weakened his

health becoming increasingly feeble, he took Holy

Orders, the profession for which his character and talents from the first

pointed him out. In 1629 he married, and in 1630 was inducted to the

living of Bemerton, near Salisbury, where he continued until his death three

years later. During these three years, he wrote his Country Parson, which

was not, however, printed until after his death.]

In his Life of George Herbert, Izaak Walton informs us that

when Herbert delivered his first sermon at Bemerton, after his

induction to that living, the discourse was “after a most florid

manner, both with great learning and eloquence”; but that at

the close he warned his congregation that it “should not be his

constant way of preaching . . . but that for their sakes his

language and his expressions should be more plain and practical

in his future sermons.” As far as I am aware, this opening

sermon was never printed and given to the world, so that it is

impossible to compare Herbert’s style when “eloquent” with that

other style which was plain and practical ; but this is certain,

that the only prose work of Herbert’s of any length that we

possess, his Country Parson, partakes of the latter character.

In fact, when we recall the incessant effort after simile and

analogy in his poems, this prose treatise is curiously simple and

straightforward, and owes its effectiveness to just these qualities.

The later euphuism was indeed abundantly conspicuous in

Herbert’s verse, but it was the euphuism of thought and fancy,

rather than of style. His similes are often as far fetched as those

of Lovelace or Cowley, but they are rarely, if ever, grotesque.

They are, in fact, chastened and kept in check by a genuine earnestness and religious power which are never absent. Apart from the thoughts expressed, the literary diction of Herbert's verse is as free from ornament as Wordsworth's. He is rarely, if ever, florid or rhetorical. The taste of the age for conceits finds its gratification in other ways--in puns and quibbles, as well as in tricks of construction, such as verses arranged in the shape of wings or altars, or in mechanical ingenuity like the following--

What open force or hidden CHARM

Can blast my fruit or bring me HARM

While the enclosure is Thine ARM?

No trace of such misapplied cleverness is to be found in Herbert's prose ; and we cannot doubt that the same restraining force was at work, and for the same reasons, as dictates the style of his later Bemerton sermons. Not for the first or last time in our literature was it to be shown that the euphuistic tendency is killed when the writer begins to think more of his topic than of himself.

The style of Herbert's simple prose treatise was no doubt further determined by the form he chose for it. Its complete title is A Priest to the Temple, or The Country Parson, his Character and Rule of Holy Life. The word "Character," printed in large capitals, was perhaps meant to convey that the "Characters" of Theophrastus was in the author's mind. He may have wished to suggest that the acts and habits of the Country Parson were as well worth record and analysis as some of the more frivolous types of the Greek philosopher. Moreover, to write "Characters," had become a fashion. Overbury's had appeared after his death in 1614, and Earle's Microcosmography in 1628. For the rest, there are traces here and there of the antithesis, and the balanced sentence of Lyly and the earlier euphuists, which is only saying that the dexterous manipulation of language was still a little too evident, and that style, which means the perfection of such skill, had not yet fully learned the ars celare artem.

But throughout, the style is what may be called "well-bred," and the native sweetness and courtesy of George Herbert are reflected even in the choice and arrangement of his words and phrases.

ALFRED AINGER.

THE PARSON PREACHING

The Country Parson preacheth constantly ; the pulpit is his joy and his throne. If he at any time intermit, it is either for want of health, or against some great festival, that he may the better celebrate it, or for the variety of the hearers, that he may be heard at his return more attentively. When he interimits, he is ever very well supplied by some able man, who treads in his steps, and will not throw down what he hath built ; whom also he entreats to press some point, that he himself hath often urged with no great success, that so, in the mouth of two or three witnesses, the truth may be more established. When he preacheth he procures attention by all possible art, both by earnestness of speech (it being natural to men to think that where is much earnestness there is somewhat worth hearing), and by a diligent and busy cast of his eye on his auditors, with letting them know that he observes who marks and who not ; and with particularising of his speech—now to the younger folk, then to the elder ; now to the poor, and now to the rich : “ This is for you, and this is for you ;” for particulars ever touch and awake more than generals. Herein also he serves himself of the judgments of God, as those of ancient times, so especially of the late ones ; and those most which are nearest to his parish ; for people are very attentive at such discourses, and think it behoves them to be so, when God is so near them, and even over their heads. Sometimes he tells them stories and sayings of others, according as his text invites him ; for them also men heed and remember better than exhortations, which though earnest, yet often die with the sermon, especially with country people, which are thick and heavy, and hard to raise to a point of zeal and fervency, and need a mountain of fire to kindle them ; but stories and sayings they will well remember. He often tells them that sermons are dangerous things, that none goes out of Church as he came in, but either better or worse ; that none is careless before his Judge,

and that the Word of God shall judge us. By these and other means the parson procures attention; but the character of his sermon is holiness: he is not witty, or learned, or eloquent, but holy; a character that Hermogenes never dreamed of, and therefore he could give no precept thereof. But it is gained, first, by choosing texts of devotion, not controversy, moving and ravishing texts, whereof the Scriptures are full. Secondly, by dipping and seasoning all our words and sentences in our hearts before they come into our mouths, truly affecting and cordially expressing all that we say, so that the auditors may plainly perceive that every word is heart-deep. Thirdly, by turning, often, and making many apostrophes to God, as, “O Lord, bless my people and teach them this point”; or, “O my Master, on whose errand I come, let me hold my peace, and do Thou speak Thyself, for Thou art love, and when Thou teachest all are scholars.” Some such irradiations scatteringly in the sermon, carry great holiness in them. The prophets are admirable in this. So Isaiah lxix.: “Oh that Thou wouldst rend the heavens, that Thou wouldst come down!” etc.; and Jeremiah x., after he had complained of the desolation of Israel, turns to God suddenly, “O Lord, I know that the way of man is not in himself,” etc. Fourthly, by frequent wishes of the people's good, and joying therein, though he himself were with St. Paul even sacrificed upon the service of their faith; for there is no greater sign of holiness than the procuring and rejoicing in another's good. And herein St. Paul excelled in all his Epistles. How did he put the Romans in all his prayers! (Rom. i. 9); and ceased not to give thanks for the Ephesians (Eph. i. 16); and for the Corinthians (chap. i. 4); and for the Philippians made request with joy (chap. i. 4); and is in contention for them whether to live or die; be with them or Christ (verse 23); which, setting aside his care of his flock, were a madness to doubt of. What an admirable epistle is the second to the Corinthians! how full of affections!--he joys and he is sorry, he grieves and he glories: never was there such care of a flock expressed, save in the great Shepherd of the fold, who first shed tears over Jerusalem, and afterwards blood. Therefore this care may be learned there, and then woven into sermons, which will make them appear exceeding reverend and holy. Lastly, by an often urging of the presence and majesty of God, by these or suchlike speeches:—“Oh, let us all take heed what we do! God sees us, He sees whether I speak as I ought, or you hear as you ought; He sees

hearts as we see faces: He is among us; for if we be here, He

must be here, since we are here by Him, and without Him could

not be here." Then turn the discourse to His majesty, "And

He is a great God and terrible: as great in mercy, so great in

judgment. There are but two devouring elements, fire and water:

He hath both in Him; His voice is the sound of many waters

(Revelation i.); and He himself is a consuming fire (Hebrews xii.)."

Such discourses show very holy. The parson's method in hand-

ling of a text consists of two parts: first, a plain and evident

declaration of the meaning of the text; and secondly, some choice

observations drawn out of the old text as it lies entire and unbroken

in the Scripture itself. This he thinks natural and sweet and

grave. Whereas the other way of crumbling a text into small

parts, as, the person speaking or spoken to, the subject and object

and the like, hath neither in it sweetness, nor gravity, nor variety,

since the words apart are not Scripture, but a dictionary, and may

be considered alike in all the Scripture. The parson exceeds not

an hour in preaching, because all ages have thought that a com-

petency, and he that profits not in that time, will less afterwards,

the same affection which made him not profit before making him

then weary, and so he grows from not relishing to loathing.

(From A Priest to the Temple.)

THE PARSON ON SUNDAYS

The Country Parson, as soon as he awakes on Sunday mornings

presently falls to work, and seems to himself so as a market man

is when the market day comes, or a shopkeeper when customers

use to come in. His thoughts are full of making the best of the

day, and contriving it to his best gains. To this end, besides his

ordinary prayers, he makes a peculiar one for a blessing on the

exercises of the day. That nothing befall him unworthy of that

Majesty before which he is to present himself, but that all may be

done with reverence to His glory, and with edification to his flock,

humbly beseeching his Master that how or whenever He punish

him, it be not in his ministry; then he turns to request for his

people that the Lord would be pleased to sanctify them all, that

they may come with holy hearts and awfull minds into the congre-

gation, and that the good God would pardon all those who come

with less prepared hearts than they ought. This done, he sets

himself to the consideration of the duties of the day, and if there

be any extraordinary addition to the customary exercises, either

from the time of the year, or from the state, or from God, by a

child born or dead, or any other accident, he contrives how and

in what manner to induce it to the best advantage. Afterwards,

when the hour calls, with his family attending him, he goes to

church, at his first entrance humbly adoring and worshipping the

invisible majesty and presence of Almighty God, and blessing

the people, either openly or to himself. Then having read Divine

service twice fully, and preached in the morning, and catechised

in the afternoon, he thinks he hath in some measure, according to

poor and frail man, discharged the public duties of the congre-

gation. The rest of the day he spends either in reconciling

neighbours that are at variance, or in visiting the sick, or in ex-

hortations to some of his flock by themselves, whom his sermons

cannot or do not reach. And every one is more awaked when

we come and say, " Thou art the man." This way he finds ex-

ceeding useful and winning ; and these exhortations he calls his

privy purse, even as princes have theirs, besides their public dis-

bursements. At night, he thinks it a very fit time, both suitable

to the joy of the day and without hindrance to public duties,

either to entertain some of his neighbours or to be entertained

of them, where he takes occasion to discourse of such things as

are both profitable and pleasant, and to raise up their minds to

apprehend God's good blessing to our Church and state—that

order is kept in the one, and peace in the other, without disturb-

ance or interruption of public divine offices. As he opened the

day with prayer, so he closeth it, humbly beseeching the Almighty

to pardon and accept our poor services, and to improve them,

that we may grow therein, and that our feet may be like hinds'

feet, ever climbing up higher and higher unto Him.

(From the Same.)

THOMAS HOBBES

[The philosopher of Malmesbury, as it used to be the fashion to call him, was born at that town on the 5th of April, 1588, and was the son of the vicar of Charlton, a village in the immediate neighbourhood, then a seat of the Knyvets, which early in Hobbes' life went by marriage to the Howards, and before his death was connected with Dryden. He went early to Magdalen Hall at Oxford, and took his degree. Somewhat before his majority he was recommended to the Cavendish family, as tutor to the future (second) Earl of Devonshire, and for the greater part of a century he remained a client of the house, and not unfrequently a member of the household. He made the grand tour with his pupil in 1610, and returning to London became acquainted with most of the literary society of James the First's time, being closely associated with Bacon. His own first literary effort was late and not original, being a translation of Thucydides which he published in 1628, his fortieth year. It is, though not rigidly exact, a very good translation—as good as his subsequent attempt on Homer is bad. In the same year his pupil died. He returned to his old business, and conducted the son of Sir Gervase Clifton over the Continent, but he soon resorted again to the Devonshire family, making his third journey abroad as tutor in charge of his first pupil's son. He now, in the middle of the fourth decade of the century, was introduced to the strongly mathematical and philosophical group of Parisian men of letters. He plunged, not with happy results, into mathematics ; he attacked philosophy with results, in part at least, very happy. On his return to England he took the Royalist side, and, being always a very timid person, fled abroad again, lest the Parliament should take notice of his published or MS. works. Of these De Cive appeared in 1642; Leviathan in 1651. The wonderful little Human Nature had been written as carly as 1640, but was not published till much later. As he had fled from England to France, so he fled from France to England, owing to some slight from Charles II. to whom he had been tutor for a time. But after the Restoration Charles gave him a pension. He enjoyed it for nearly twenty years and died at Hardwick Hall, on 4th December, 1679, in his ninety-second year. His works are chiefly known in the edition (16 vols.) of Molesworth, which, though the print and paper are excellent, is simply not edited at all. A Danish scholar, Dr. Tönnies, has recently given some careful recensions of particular works from MS.]

BUT slight reference need, or indeed can, be made here to the matter of the remarkable works of Hobbes. His philosophy, so-called, was a philosophy rather of the eighteenth than of his own

VOL. II

P

century, almost destitute of a metaphysic, and contenting itself chiefly with certain nominalist or anti-idealist glances in the ontological direction, while it busied itself with law, religion, politics, ethics, psychology, and, to some extent, physics. Man was quite the centre of the universe to Hobbes, though he had no very exalted idea of humanity : and the reproachful use of the term “ Hobbist ” in his later days and after his death to signify Deist, is to be justified, if justified at all, less by any actively anti-Christian doctrine in his writings than by his uncompromising anthropology. Hobbes might have defined man as an extremely troublesome animal who sometimes has brains enough to see the necessity of keeping his own and others' troublesome instincts in order for his own and others' good. And this is the basis alike of his politics, his ethics, and, so far as he indulges in it, his psychology.

His manner, which is here of more interest to us than his matter, is also extremely remarkable and curious. He wrote, as has been said above, late ; he constantly produced (not always in exact counterpart) his works both in English and in Latin ; and in some cases, if not in most, it would appear that the Latin was his own work and the English that merely of an amanuensis, though much revised and altered by himself. This, however, though odd and a little disquieting to the critic, is not of much real importance, the personal and individual impression in his English work being so distinct and so uniform that the exact circumstances and process of composition may be neglected.

It would hardly be possible to take Hobbes for anything but a seventeenth-century writer, even if his work were anonymous and undated, but he possesses among the English writers of the seventeenth century very marked characteristics. They have been to some extent traced to the influence of Ben Jonson, of whom Hobbes saw much in early middle life, and whose style in his Discoveries is by no means unlike that of Hobbes, though it is less unadorned. But in truth the resemblances of Hobbes to Jonson in form, as well as his resemblances to Bacon, another early associate or patron of his, in some other respects, are not resemblances of imitation. To whatever causes they were due on the side of the elder writers, they came on Hobbes's part from idiosyncrasy, from study, and from the working of his peculiar theories. To a very mature period of life he wrote nothing, it would seem, but Latin (remarkably strong and clear Latin, but bare of all ornament or

Ciceronianism, and indeed rather ugly), or else the severe and un-

adorned English of his Thucydides. His study—though his con-

tempt of the schoolmen is almost ultra-Baconian—had evidently

been much in school divinity and philosophy, as well as in technical

writers on law and other “dry” subjects. But the character of his

philosophy itself must have had even more influence than these

things on the character of his style. Hobbes is a Nominalist of

Nominalists. He will have no other universals than names ; he

pours scorn on “nesses and tudes and ties.” “Define what you

mean by your words ; define it strictly and exactly, and then add,

subtract, divide, and otherwise treat the quantities so defined as

confidently as in actual computation”—this is the summary, almost

in his own words, of his method. Philosophically, of course, the

result is frequently faulty. In the effort to reject the vague,

Hobbes often leaves large parts of his problems unaccounted for ;

and in the effort to secure the precise he often attaches non-

natural meanings to words of which men feel, but which they can-

not sharply express, the natural meanings. Thus, for instance,

he makes a point, though perhaps a point more apparent than

real, when he scornfully dismisses the supposed “corruptions” of

the Three Governments—anarchy for democracy, oligarchy for

aristocracy, and tyranny for monarchy—as names given to the

things themselves by those who do not like them. But when he

says that pulchrum is “that which promises good” his reader

can only reply, “Philosopher of Malmesbury, when you and I talk

of beauty we talk of two different things,” and when he says,

“Contempt or little sense of the calamity of others is that which

men call Cruelty,” his reader can only say, “You may be of

such men, I am not.”

Still every one must see what a character, what an intense force

and personality, this exaltation of names and this constant endea-

vour to identify them as exactly as possible with ideas, must

impress upon style if the writer's power of expression be suitable

to his design. In Hobbes the power was so suitable. His style

is not engaging. It is frequently arid and hard ; the life-blood

seems to have been squeezed out of it, and only a dried prepara-

tion to remain. At times, indeed, as in some famous passages of

the Human Nature and the Leviathan, the dry bones are agitated

by a curious gust of more human feeling ; but this is rare.

Hobbes' process of argument is the articulating of a skeleton

rather than anything else ; but the articulation is faultless, and

the " subject" is superbly treated. He is never unimpressive ; he is never, as writers who aim at extreme precision and the rejection of all superfluity often are, trivial ; he is very seldom, indeed, to any reader who takes the slightest genuine interest in his subject, dull. His language always has a stuff and substance of thought, though it may sometimes, as has been said, be rather twisted and non-natural thought : his thought never fails to clothe itself in clear and accurate language. Difficult he may sometimes be, but he is hardly ever obscure, and he is absolutely free from a common vice both of easy and difficult philosophers, the vice of talking without really saying anything. Crabbed is the favourite, and on the whole the most appropriate, epithet for him ; but it may be questioned whether it does not apply better to the harsh and ungrateful character of his ethical teaching than the peculiarities of style which usually receive that name in writing. It is to be observed that in actual controversy Hobbes does not show at his best. His objections to Descartes verge on the petty and quibbling. It is possible that school divinity may be, as he says, " the kingdom of darkness." But when you condescend to argue with an inhabitant of that or any kingdom, you must adopt his language, or get him to accept yours, or arrange for a common interpreter. To argue with a school divine as Hobbes does with Bramhall by saying, "actus simplicissimus signifieth nothing" is but weak.

It is when he is not jangling with others, but speaking in his own pulpit that Hobbes is at his best. The two first parts of the "Tripos," Human Nature and De Corpore Politico (for the third, "Liberty and Necessity," is a mere controversial appendix) the Philosophical Elements, the Leviathan, and the critical-narrative Behemoth (somewhat better presented in Dr. Tönnies' edition) are the places to see him thus. It is true that like other philosophers he is more convincing in appearance than on examination. The rigid definition of every term, of every idea, as it occurs, has a noble appearance of equity ; but as each definition gives room for a fresh assumption it is perhaps not quite so equitable as it looks. This, however, is a purely material objection. As far as the outward dress of philosophy goes, and no doubt often a good deal farther, Hobbes, yielding to many in beauty, yields to none in a certain majesty of form. His disdain for ornament carries with it more than an apparent, it carries with it a real freedom from sophistry. His fallacies, such as they are, lie open for any

THOMAS HOBBES

213

tolerably acute reasoner to detect: they are not masked and wimpled in a cloud of words. Nor for all his love of names does he ever descend to that barren playing with terminology which is so common in philosophical writing. Almost all great philosophers have had, as it were inevitably, the style of their philosophy, but none has had it so much as Hobbes. His style is bare, uninviting, uncompromising, rugged, but strong, ready at any moment for defence or attack, without an ounce of superfluous ornament or flesh—a style like the armour and condition of a veteran legionary.

GEORGE SAINTSBURY.

THE CAUSES OF MUTUAL FEAR

THE cause of mutual fear consists partly in the natural equality of men, partly in their mutual will of hurting : whence it comes to pass, that we can neither expect from others, nor promise to ourselves the least security. For if we look on men full-grown, and consider how brittle the frame of our human body is, which perishing, all its strength, vigour, and wisdom itself perisheth with it ; and how easy a matter it is, even for the weakest man to kill the strongest : there is no reason why any man, trusting to his own strength, should conceive himself made by nature above others. They are equals, who can do equal things one against the other ; but they who can do the greatest things, viz., kill, can do equal things. All men therefore amongst themselves are by nature equal ; the inequality we now discern, hath its spring from the civil law.

All men in the state of nature have a desire and will to hurt, but not proceeding from the same cause, neither equally to be condemned. For one man, according to that natural equality which is among us, permits as much to others as he assumes to himself ; which is an argument of a temperate man, and one that rightly values his power. Another, supposing himself above others, will have a licence to do what he lists, and challenges respect and honour, as due to him before others ; which is an argument of a fiery spirit. This man's will to hurt ariseth from vain glory, and the false esteem he hath of his own strength ; the other's from the necessity of defending himself, his liberty, and his goods, against this man's violence.

Furthermore, since the combat of wits is the fiercest, the greatest discords which are, must necessarily arise from this contention. For in this case it is not only odious to contend against, but also not to consent. For not to approve of what a man saith, is no less than tacitly to accuse him of an error in that thing which he speaketh : as in very many things to dissent,

is as much as if you accounted him a fool whom you dissent from. Which may appear hence, that there are no wars so sharply waged as between sects of the same religion, and factions of the same commonweal, where the contestation is either concerning doctrines or politic prudence. And since all the pleasure and jollity of the mind consists in this, even to get some, with whom comparing, it may find somewhat wherein to triumph and vaunt itself; it is impossible but men must declare sometimes some mutual scorn and contempt, either by laughter, or by words, or by gesture, or some sign or other; than which there is no greater vexation of mind, and than from which there cannot possibly arise a greater desire to do hurt.

But the most frequent reason why men desire to hurt each other, ariseth hence, that many men at the same time have an appetite to the same thing; which yet very often they can neither enjoy in common, nor yet divide it; whence it follows that the strongest must have it, and who is strongest must be decided by the sword.

(From the Philosophical Elements of a True Citizen.)

THE STATE OF WAR

WHATSOEVER therefore is consequent to a time of war, where every man is enemy to every man; the same is consequent to the time, wherein men live without other security, than what their own strength, and their own invention shall furnish them withal. In such condition, there is no place for industry; because the fruit thereof is uncertain: and consequently no culture of the earth; no navigation, nor use of the commodities that may be imported by sea; no commodious building; no instruments of moving and removing such things as require much force; no knowledge of the face of the earth; no account of time; no arts; no letters; no society; and, which is worst of all, continual fear, and danger of violent death; and the life of man solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.

It may seem strange to some man that has not well weighed these things, that nature should thus dissociate, and render men apt to invade, and destroy one another: and he may therefore, not trusting to this inference, made from the passions, desire perhaps to have the same confirmed by experience. Let him

therefore consider with himself, when taking a journey, he arms

himself, and seeks to go well accompanied; when going to sleep,

he locks his doors; when even in his house he locks his chests;

and this when he knows there be laws, and public officers, armed,

to revenge all injuries shall be done him; what opinion he has of

his fellow-subjects, when he rides armed; of his fellow-citizens,

when he locks his doors; and of his children and servants, when

he locks his chests. Does he not there as much accuse mankind

by his actions, as I do by my words? But neither of us accuse

man's nature in it. The desires and other passions of man are

in themselves no sin. No more are the actions that proceed

from those passions, till they know a law that forbids them;

which, till laws be made, they cannot know: nor can any law be

made, till they have agreed upon the person that shall make it.

It may peradventure be thought, there was never such a time,

nor condition of war as this; and I believe it was never

generally so over all the world; but there are many places

where they live so now. For the savage people in many places

of America, except the government of small families, the concord

whereof dependeth on natural lust, have no government at all;

and live at this day in that brutish manner, as I said before.

Howsoever, it may be perceived what manner of life there would

be, where there were no common power to fear, by the manner

of life which men that have formerly lived under a peaceful

government, used to degenerate into, in a civil war.

But though there had never been any time, wherein particular

men were in a condition of war one against another; yet in all

times, kings and persons of sovereign authority, because of their

independency, are in continual jealousies, and in the state and

posture of gladiators: having their weapons pointing, and their

eyes fixed on one another; that is, their forts, garrisons, and

guns upon the frontiers of their kingdoms; and continual spies

upon their neighbours; which is a posture of war. But, because

they uphold thereby the industry of their subjects; there does

not follow from it, that misery, which accompanies the liberty of

particular men.

To this war of every man against every man, this also is

consequent, that nothing can be unjust. The notions of right

and wrong, justice and injustice, have there no place. Where

there is no common power, there is no law: where no law, no

injustice. Force and fraud are in war the two cardinal virtues.

Justice, and injustice are none of the faculties neither of the body, nor mind. If they were, they might be in a man that were alone in the world, as well as his senses, and passions. They are qualities, that relate to men in society, not in solitude. It is consequent also to the same condition, that there be no propriety, no dominion, no mine and thine distinct ; but only that to be every man's, that he can get ; and for so long, as he can keep it. And thus much for the ill condition, which man by mere nature is actually placed in : though with a possibility to come out of it, consisting partly in the passions, partly in his reason.

(From the Leviathan.)

NATURAL RELIGION

Curiosity, or love of the knowledge of causes, draws a man from the consideration of the effect to seek the cause ; and again, the cause of that cause; till of necessity he must come to this thought at last, that there is some cause, whereof there is no former cause, but is eternal ; which is it men call God. So that it is impossible to make any profound inquiry into natural causes, without being inclined thereby to believe there is one God eternal ; though they cannot have any idea of Him in their mind, answerable to His nature. For as a man that is born blind, hearing men talk of warming themselves by the fire, and being brought to warm himself by the same, may easily conceive, and assure himself, there is somewhat there, which men call fire, and is the cause of the heat he feels : but cannot imagine what it is like, nor have an idea of it in his mind, such as they have that see it : so also by the visible things in this world, and their admirable order, a man may conceive there is a cause of them, which men call God ; and yet not have an idea, or image of Him in his mind.

And they that make little or no inquiry into the natural causes of things, yet from the fear that proceeds from the ignorance itself, of what it is that hath the power to do them much good or harm, are inclined to suppose, and feign unto themselves, several kinds of powers invisible ; and to stand in awe of their own imaginations ; and in time of distress to invoke them ; as also in the time of an expected good success, to give them thanks. By making the creatures of their own fancy, their gods.

means it hath come to pass, that from the innumerable variety

of fancy, men have created in the world innumerable sorts of

gods. And this fear of things invisible, is the natural seed of

that which every one in himself calleth religion; and in them

that worship, or fear that power otherwise than they do,

superstition.

And this seed of religion, having been observed by many;

some of those that have observed it, have been inclined thereby

to nourish, dress, and form it into laws; and to add to it of their

own invention, any opinion of the causes of future events, by

which they thought they should be best able to govern others,

and make unto themselves the greatest use of their powers.

(From the Same.)

THE RACE

The comparison of the life of man to a race, though it hold not

in every part, yet it holdeth so well for this our purpose, that we

may thereby both see and remember almost all the passions

before mentioned. But this race we must suppose to have no

other goal, nor other garland, but being foremost, and in it:

To endeavour, is appetite.

To be remiss, is sensuality.

To consider them behind, is glory.

To consider them before, is humility.

To lose ground with looking back, vain glory.

To be holden, hatred.

To turn back, repentance.

To be in breath, hope.

To be weary, despair.

To endeavour to overtake the next, emulation.

To supplant or overthrow, envy.

To resolve to break through a stop foreseen, courage.

To break through a sudden stop, anger.

To break through with ease, magnanimity.

To lose ground by little hindrances, pusillanimity.

To fall on the sudden, is disposition to weep.

To see another fall, is disposition to laugh.

To see one out-gone whom we would not, is pity.

To see one out-go whom we would not, is indignation.

To hold fast by another, is to love.

To carry him on that so holdeth, is charity.

To hurt one's-self for haste is shame.

Continually to be out-gone, is misery.

Continually to out-go the next before, is felicity.

And to forsake the course, is to die.

(From Human Nature.)

LOVE

Of love, by which is understood the joy man taketh in the fruition

of any present good, hath been already spoken of in the first

section, chapter vii. under which is contained the love men bear

to one another, or pleasure they take in one another's company;

and by which nature, men are said to be sociable. But there is

another kind of love, which the Greeks call "Eρως and is that

which we mean, when we say that a man is in love: forasmuch

as this passion cannot be without diversity of sex, it cannot be

denied but that it participateth of that indefinite love mentioned

in the former section. But there is a great difference betwixt the

desire of a man indefinite, and the same desire limited ad hunc;

and this is that love which is the great theme of poets: but not-

withstanding their praises, it must be defined by the word need:

for it is a conception a man hath of his need of that one person

desired. The cause of this passion is not always nor for the

most part beauty, or other quality in the beloved, unless there be

withal hope in the person that loveth: which may be gathered

from this, that in great difference of persons, the greater have

often fallen in love with the meaner; but not contrary. And

from hence it is, that for the most part they have much better

fortune in love, whose hopes are built upon something in their

person, than those that trust to their expressions and service; and

they that care less, than they that care more: which not perceiv-

ing, many men cast away their services, as one arrow after

another, till, in the end, together with their hopes, they lose

their wits.

(From the Same.)

220

ENGLISH PROSE

THE INCONVENIENCES OF GOVERNMENT

The inconvenience aising from governmnet in general to him that governeth, consisteth partly in the continual care and trouble about the business of other men that are his subjects ; and partly, in the danger of his person. For the head always is that part, not only where the care resideth, but also against which the stroke of an enemy most commonly is directed. To balance this in- commodity, the sovereignity, together with the necessity of this care and danger, comprehendeth so much honour, riches, and means, whereby to delight the mind, as no private man's wealth can attain unto. The inconveniences of government in general to a subject are none at all, if well considered, but in appearance. There be two things that may trouble his mind, or two general grievances ; the one is, loss of liberty ; the other, the uncertainty of meum and tuum. For the first, it consisteth in this, that a subject may no more govern his own actions according to his own discretion and judgment, or, which is all one, conscience, as the present occasions from time to time shall dictate to him ; but must be tied to do according to that will, which once for all he had long ago laid up, and involved in the wills of the major part of an assembly, or in the will of some one man. But this is really no inconvenience. For, as it hath been showed before, it is the only means, by which we have any possibility of preserving ourselves. For if every man were allowed this liberty of following his conscience, in such difference of consciences, they would not live together in peace an hour. But it appeareth a great inconvenience to every man in particular, to be debarred of this liberty, because every one apart considereth it as in himself, and not as in the rest : by which means, liberty appeareth in the likeness of rule and government over others. For where one man is at liberty, and the rest bound, there that one hath government ; which honour, he that understandeth not so much, demanding by the name simply of liberty, thinketh it a great grievance and injury to be denied it. For the second grievance concerning meum and tuum, it is also none, but in appearance only ; it consisteth in this, that the sovereign power taketh from him that which he used to enjoy, knowing no other propriety, but use and custom. But without such sovereign power, the right of men is not pro-

priety to anything, but a community, no better than to have no

right at all, as hath been showed, Part I. chapter i. section 10.

Propriety therefore being derived from the sovereign power, is

not to be pretended against the same, especially, when by it

every subject hath his propriety against every other subject,

which when sovereignty ceaseth, he hath not, because in that

case they return to war amongst themselves. Those levies

therefore which are made upon men's estates, by the sovereign

authority, are no more but the price of that peace and defence

which the sovereignty maintaineth for them. If this were not

so, no money nor forces for the wars, nor any other public occa-

sion, could justly be levied in the world. For neither king, nor

democracy, nor aristocracy, nor the estates of any land, could do

it, if the sovereignty could not. For in all those cases, it is levied

by virtue of the sovereignty. Nay more, by the three estates

here, the land of one man may be transferred to another, without

crime of him from whom it was taken, and without pretence of

public benefit, as hath been done : and this without injury, because

done by the sovereign power. For the power whereby it is done,

is no less than sovereign, and cannot be greater. Therefore this

grievance for meum and tuum is not real, unless more be exacted

than is necessary ; but it seemeth a grievance, because to them

that either know not the right of sovereignty, or to whom that

right belongeth, it seemeth an injury ; and injury, how little

soever the damage, is always grievous, as putting us in mind

of our disability to help ourselves, and into envy of the power to

do us wrong.

(From De Corpore Politico.)

HOW THE PRESBYTERIANS GREW STRONG

IT was not their own art alone that did it, but they had the con-

currence of a great many gentlemen, that did no less desire a

popular government in the civil state than these ministers did in

the Church. And as these did in the pulpit draw the people to

their opinions, and to a dislike of the Church government, Canons,

and Common-Prayer book, so did the other make them in love

with the democracy by their harangues in the Parliament, and by

their discourses and communication with people in the country,

continually extolling liberty and inveighing against tyranny,

leaving the people to collect of themselves that this tyranny was

the present government of the state. And as the Presbyterians

brought with them into their churches their divinity from the

universities, so did many of the gentlemen bring their politics

from thence into the Parliament ; but neither of them did this

very boldly in the time of Queen Elizabeth. And though it be

not likely that all of them did it out of malice, but many of them

out of error, yet certainly the chief leaders were ambitious ministers,

and ambitious gentlemen ; the ministers envying the authority of

bishops, whom they thought less learned ; and the gentlemen

envying the privy-council, whom they thought less wise than

themselves. For it is a hard matter for men, who do all think

highly of their own wits, when they have also acquired the learning

of the university, to be persuaded that they want any ability

requisite for the government of a commonwealth, especially having

read the glorious histories and the sententious politics of the

ancient popular governments of the Greeks and Romans, amongst

whom kings were hated and branded with the name of tyrants,

and popular government (though no tyrant was ever so cruel as a

popular assembly) passed by the name of liberty. The Presby-

terian ministers, in the beginning of the reign of Queen Elizabeth,

did not, because they durst not, publicly preach against the

discipline of the Church. But not long after, by the favour

perhaps of some great courtier, they went abroad, preaching in

most of the market-towns of England, as the preaching friars had

formerly done, upon working-days in the morning ; in which

sermons, these and others of the same tenets, that had charge of

souls, both by the manner and matter of their preaching, applied

themselves wholly to the winning of the people to a liking of

their doctrines and good opinion of their persons.

And first, for the manner of their preaching ; they so framed

their countenance and gesture at their entrance into the pulpit,

and their pronunciation both in their prayer and sermon, and

used the Scripture phrase (whether understood by the people or

not), as that no tragedian in the world could have acted the part

of a right godly man better than these did ; insomuch that a man

unacquainted with such art, could never suspect any ambitious

plot in them to raise sedition against the state, as they then had

designed ; or doubt that the vehemence of their voice (for the

same words with the usual pronunciation had been of little force)

and forcedness of their gesture and looks, could arise from anything else but zeal to the service of God. And by this art they came into such credit, that numbers of men used to go forth of their own parishes and towns on working-days, leaving their calling, and on Sundays leaving their own churches, to hear them preach in other places, and to despise their own and all other preachers that acted not so well as they. And as for those ministers that did not usually preach, but instead of sermons did read to the people such homilies as the Church had appointed, they esteemed and called them dumb dogs.

Secondly, for the matter of their sermons, because the anger of the people in the late Roman usurpation was then fresh, they saw there could be nothing more gracious with them than to preach against such other points of the Romish religion as the bishops had not yet condemned; that so receding further from popery than they did, they might with glory to themselves leave a suspicion on the bishops, as men not yet well purged from idolatry.

Thirdly, before their sermons, their prayer was or seemed to be extempore, which they pretended to be dictated by the spirit of God within them, and many of the people believed or seemed to believe it. For any man might see, that had judgment, that they did not take care beforehand what they should say in their prayers. And from hence came a dislike of the Common-Prayer book, which is a set form, premeditated, that men might see to what they were to say Amen.

Fourthly, they did never in their sermons, or but lightly, inveigh against the lucrative vices of men of trade or handicraft; such as are feigning, lying, cozening, hypocrisy, or other uncharitableness, except want of charity to their pastors and to the faithful: which was a great ease to the generality of citizens and the inhabitants of market-towns, and no little profit to themselves.

Fifthly, by preaching up an opinion that men were to be assured of their salvation by the testimony of their own private spirit, meaning the Holy Ghost dwelling within them. And from this opinion the people that found in themselves a sufficient hatred towards the Papists, and an ability to repeat the sermons of these men at their coming home, made no doubt but that they had all that was necessary, how fraudulently and spitefully soever they behaved themselves to their neighbours that were not reckoned amongst the saints, and sometimes to those also,

Sixthly, they did, indeed, with great earnestness and severity, inveigh often against two sins, carnal lusts and vain swearing ; which, without question, was very well done. But the common people were thereby inclined to believe, that nothing else was sin, but that which was forbidden in the third and seventh commandments (for few men do understand by the name of lust any other concupiscence, than that which is forbidden in that seventh commandment ; for men are not ordinarily said to lust after another man's cattle, or other goods or possessions) : and therefore never made much scruple of the acts of fraud and malice, but endeavoured to keep themselves from uncleanness only, or at least from the scandal of it. And, whereas they did, both in their sermons and writings, maintain and inculcate, that the very first motions of the mind, that is to say, the delight men and women took in the sight of one another's form, though they checked the proceeding thereof so that it never grew up to be a design, was nevertheless a sin, they brought young men into desperation and to think themselves damned, because they could not (which no man can, and is contrary to the constitution of nature) behold a delightful object without delight. And by this means they became confessors to such as were thus troubled in conscience, and were obeyed by them as their spiritual doctors in all cases of conscience.

(From Behemoth.)

THOMAS MAY

[He was the son of Sir Thomas May of Mayfield, Sussex, and was born in 1594. A Fellow-commoner of Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, a student at Gray's Inn, and a courtier, he occupied his leisure in penning tragedies, comedies, descriptive poems, and translations from Virgil and Lucan. During the Civil Wars he was employed as secretary and historiographer to the Long Parliament. In this capacity he published in 1647 his History of the Parliament of England, which began 3rd Nov. 1640. This work however only extends to the battle of Newbury in 1643. In a Breviary of the same history, published in 1650, he carries the story some years further. May's History was reprinted by Baron Maseres in 1812, and by the Clarendon Press in 1854 ; his Breviary is included in Maseres' Select Tracts relating to the Civil Wars (1815). His comedies are, The Heir and The Old Couple; his tragedies, Cleopatra, Agrippina, and Antigone. To these Mr. Fleay would add the anonymous play of Nero, and if this be really May's it is his masterpiece. There exists a rare book entitled An Epitome of the English History by Thomas May, Esq., a late Member of Parliament, 3rd ed. 1690; but as this is written in an anti-Cromwellian vein, and as the events narrated go down to 1660, it can hardly be the work of our author, who died in 1650.]

May is a man of letters playing the historian. He flaunts you his Latin at every turn, decking his narrative with quotations from Claudian, Petronius, Lucan, and stopping to translate them with superfluous nicety. He conceives of history rather as an art than a science ; his object is to instruct ignorance, not to assist investigation ; he will insert a document here and there, but for the most part you must take his word for his authorities. And, as is the wont of literary men, it is the personal note that attracts him most, not as with the modern school, analysis of hidden cause and obvious effect ; so that the best part of his book is to be found in the touches of characterisation, in the sketches of Pym, of Strafford. As a describer of battles he is hardly vigorous or picturesque enough. Indeed to style in writing he never attains. He has not the gift of the paragraph ; page after page is a string of disconnected notes. And his diction is so far Latinised as to become bald, without catching the felicities which Latinisms sometimes give.

VOL. II

Q

times convey. A recent essayist writes "that to possess that half of the language within which Latin heredities lurk and Romanesque allusions are at play, is to possess the state and security of a dead tongue without the death." And this is true for the geniuses, for Shakespeare with his "extravagant and erring spirit," for Sir Thomas Browne and a few others, but for the rest, for such as May, it is only a pitfall, a short cut to tediousness and the easy commonplace. Against this it must be set that May is not pretentious, that his judgment is sober, and his temper just. Such praises one may bestow on the journeymen of literature.

Edmund K. Chambers.

THE ARGUMENT OF HIS HISTORY

THE subject of this work is a civil war; a war indeed as much more than civil, and as full of miracle, both in the causes and effects of it, as was ever observed in any age; a war as cruel as unnatural, that has produced as much rage of swords, as much bitterness of pens, both public and private, as was ever known; and has divided the understandings of men, as well as their affections, in so high a degree, that scarce could any virtue gain due applause, any reason give satisfaction, or any relation obtain credit, unless amongst men of the same side. It were therefore a presumptuous madness to think that this poor and weak discourse, which can deserve no applause from either side, should obtain from both so much as pardon ; or that those persons should agree in the judgment they will form of it who could never agree in anything else.

I cannot therefore be so stupid as not to be fully sensible of the difficulty of the task imposed on me, or the great envy which attends it ; which other men who have written histories, upon far less occasion, have discoursed of at large in their prefaces. And Tacitus himself, complaining of those ill times which were the unhappy subject of his Annals (though he wrote not in the time of the same princes under whom those things were acted), yet (because the families of many men who had then been ignominious were yet in being) could not but discourse how much happier those writers had been, who had taken more ancient and prosperous times for their argument ; such (as he there expresses it) as those times in which the great and glorious actions of the old Romans, their honourable achievements, and exemplary virtues, are recorded.

And I could have wished more than my life (being myself inconsiderable) that, for the sake of the public, my theme could rather have been the prosperity of these nations, the honour and happiness of the king, and such a blessed condition of both, as might have reached all the ends for which government was first

ordained in the world, than the description of shipwrecks, ruin, and desolations. Yet these things, truly recorded and observed, may be of good use, and may benefit posterity in divers kinds. For though the present actions, or rather sufferings, of these (once happy) nations, are of so high a mark and consideration, as might, perchance, throw themselves into the knowledge of posterity by tradition and the weight of their own fame, yet it may much conduce to the benefit that may arise from that knowledge, to have the true causes, original, and growth of them represented by an honest pen.

For the truth of this plain and naked discourse, which is here presented to the public view, containing a brief narration of those distractions which have fallen amongst us during the sitting of this present parliament, as also some passages and visible actions of the former government (whether probably conducing to these present calamities or not, of which let the reader judge), I appeal only to the memory of any Englishman, whose years have been enough to make him know the actions that were done, and whose conversation has been enough public to let him hear the common voice and discourses of people upon those actions ; to his memory, I say, do I appeal, whether such actions were not done and such judgments made upon them as are here related. In which, perchance, some readers may be put in mind of their own thoughts heretofore, which thoughts have since, like Nebuchadnezzar's dream, departed from them. An English gentleman, who went to travel when this parliament was called, and returned when these differences were grown among us, hearing what discourses were daily made, affirmed that the parliament of England (in his opinion) was more misunderstood in England than at Rome ; and that there was a greater need to remind our own countrymen than to inform strangers of what was past ; so much, said he, have they seemed to forget both the things themselves and their own former notions concerning them.

(From The History of the Long Parliament.)

STRAFFORD

BUT now a greater actor is brought upon the stage, Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, Lieutenant of Ireland, a man too great

to be let escape ; no sooner accused but surprised, and secured

for a trial.

Which trial of his, if we consider all things—the high nature

of the charge against him ; the pompous circumstances and

stately manner of the trial itself ; the time that it lasted ; the

preciousness of that time so consumed ; and, lastly, of what

moment and consequence the success of it must prove — I may

safely say, that no subject in England, and probably in Europe,

ever had the like.

So great it was, that we can hardly call it the trial of Strafford

only ; the king's affections toward his people and parliament,

the future success of this parliament, and the hopes of three

kingdoms depending on it, were all tried when Strafford was

arraigned.

Many subjects in Europe have played louder parts upon the

theatre of the world, but none left it with greater noise ; nor was

the matter of his accusation confined within one realm ; three

whole kingdoms were his accusers, and eagerly sought, in one

death, a recompense of all their sufferings ; that we may say of

his case, as Claudian says of Ruffinus,

Offensis Ruffinum divide terris.

Within ten days after the parliament began, the Earl of

Strafford, newly returned from the north, was sitting in the House

of Lords ; when master Pymme, an ancient gentleman, of great

experience in parliamentary affairs, and no less known fidelity to

his country, came up to the Lords, and, in the name of all the

Commons of England, accused Thomas Earl of Strafford, Lord

Lieutenant of Ireland, of high treason ; and desired their lordships

that he might be sequestered from parliament and forthwith

committed to prison ; as also to let them know that the Commons,

within very few days, would resort to their lordships with the

particular articles and grounds of this accusation.

(From the Same.)

THE QUEEN MOTHER

IT was her misfortune (how far her crime I cannot tell) that,

during her abode here, the two kingdoms of England and

Scotland were embroiled in great troubles, which the people were

apt to impute in some measure to her counsels, knowing what

power the queen her daughter had with the king.

Others taxed her not at all, but looked upon other causes, the

same counsels, which, long before her arrival, had distempered

England; but the people made their judgment upon it from her

actions or successes in other places.

But, however it were, the queen was fearful of the people here,

and had not long before desired to have a guard allowed her,

pretending fear of her life, by reason of some attempts which she

conceived to have been made against her; upon which a guard

was set about her house.

Her regency in France had not been happy, nor according to

the interest of that kingdom; though that, perchance, may be

accounted a fault not so particular to her as commonly incident

to the regency of queen mothers in that land: inasmuch as

Thuanus commends the saying of Charles the Ninth (a prince

whom otherwise he doth not praise) upon his deathbed. That,

since he must die at that age (being four and twenty), he thanked

God he had no son, lest France should fall under a regency, of

which he had found the sad effects. His mother was Katherine

de Medicis, of the same family with this queen.

After the time of her regency, her actions had been such, that

the king her son would not harbour her in his own kingdom, nor

was she welcome into the territories of her son-in-law the king

of Spain. But the people there were no less desirous of her

departure than afterward in England.

Insomuch as she afterward became a strange example of the

instability of human fortunes, that so great a queen, and mother

to so many mighty princes, should want a quiet harbour for her

age.

Not long after her departure from England she died at

Culleine, and might seem a parallel, in some things, to the

famous Empress of Rome who founded that city, and there

planted a Roman colony, Agrippina, the wife of Claudius Cæsar

and the mother of Nero. They both had tasted of power, been

active in it, but not pleasing to the people. They were both

taught that the greatness of their sons was not so much advantage

to their power as they had hoped, and had learned, that all

power dependent upon another is of small validity and less

stability; as Tacitus observes, speaking of the same Agrippina,

THOMAS MAY

231

Nihil rerum mortalium tam instabile et fluxum est, quam fama potentiae non sua vi nixæ.

(From the Same.)

THE BATTLE OF EDGEHILL

The cannon on both sides with a loud thunder began the fight, in which the success was not equal, the parliament's cannon doing great execution upon their enemies, but theirs very little.

The Earl of Lindsey, general for the king, with a pike in his hand, led on the main body of that army, in which was the king's own regiment, encountered by the Lord-General Essex, who exposed himself to all the danger that a battle could make, first leading on his troop, then his own regiment of foot, and breathing courage into them, till, being dissuaded by divers from engaging himself too far, he returned to the rest of the army to draw them on.

The chief regiments having begun the battle, Sir Philip Stapleton, with a brave troop of gentlemen (which were the general's life-guard, and commanded by him), charged the king's regiment on their right flank with their pikes, and came off without any great hurt, though those pikemen stoutly defended themselves, and the musketeers, being good firemen, played fiercely upon them.

The battle was hot at that place, and so many of the king's side slain, that the parliament army began to be victorious there; they took the standard royal, the bearer thereof, Sir Edmund Varney, being slain, and the general, the Earl of Lindsey, sore wounded, was taken prisoner.

But the same fortune was not in every part; for the king's right wing, led by prince Rupert, charged fiercely upon the left wing of the other (consisting most of horse), and prevailed altogether, for the parliament troops ran almost all away in that wing, and many of their fool companions, dismayed with their flight, fled all away before they had stood one charge; Colonel Essex, being utterly forsaken by that whole brigade which he commanded, went himself into the van, where he performed excellent service, both by direction and execution, till at the last he was shot in the thigh, of which he shortly after died; (some part of their disheartening was caused by the revolt of their own side; for Sir Faithful Fortescue, at the beginning of the fight, instead of charging the enemy, discharged his pistol to the ground, and

with his troop, wheeling about, ran to the king's army, to whom he had formerly given notice thereof by his cornet). The parliament army had undoubtedly been ruined that day, if prince Rupert and his pursuing troops had been more temperate in blundering so untimely as they did, and had wheeled about to assist their distressed friends in other parts of the army ; for prince Rupert followed the chase to Keynton town, where the carriages of the army were, which they presently pillaged, using great cruelty, as was afterwards related, to the unarmed waggoners and labouring men. A great number of the flying parliament soldiers were slain in that chase, which lasted two miles beyond Keynton, and so far, till the pursuers were forced to retire, having met with Colonel Stampden, who marched with the other brigade of the army, that brought on the artillery and ammunition, before spoken of. Colonel Stampden discharged five pieces of cannon against them ; some were slain, and the rest ceasing the pursuit retired hastily to the field, where they found all their infantry, excepting two regiments, quite defeated; for in the meantime, Sir William Balfore, lieutenant-general of the horse, with a regiment of horse, charged a regiment of the king's foot, before any foot of his own side could come up to him, and, breaking most bravely into it, had cut most of them off ; and afterward, by the assistance of some foot who were come up to him, he defeated another regiment, and so got up to the greatest part of the king's ordnance, taking some of them, cutting off the gears of the horses that drew them, and killing the gunners, but was enforced to leave them without any guard, by reason that he laboured most to make good the day against several regiments of the king's foot, who still fought with much resolution, especially that which was of the king's guard, where his standard was ; by which Sir William Balfore's regiment rode, when they came back from taking the ordnance, and were by them mistaken for their own side. Their passing without any hostility was the cause, that immediately afterward, Sir William, riding up toward the Lord-General Essex's regiment of horse, they gave fire upon Sir William Balfore's men, supposing them to be enemies, but soon discovering each other, they joined companies, and were led up with half the lord-general's regiment, by his excellency himself, against the king's main strength, where a terrible and bloody encounter happened ; at the same time Colonel Ballard, who led a brigade there of the lord-general's regiment and the

Lord Brook's, forced a stand of the king's pikes, and broke through two of his regiments.

In this great conflict the standard royal (as aforesaid) was taken, and Sir Edmund Varney slain, the Earl of Lindsey with his son, taken prisoners, together with colonel Vavasor, lieutenant colonel of that regiment ; colonel Munroe also was there slain.

The standard thus taken, and put into the lord-general's hand, was by him delivered to his secretary, master Chambers ; but the secretary, after he had carried it some time in his hand, suffered it to be taken from him by an unknown person, and so privately it was conveyed away.

There also was great service performed by the Lord Gray, son to the Earl of Stamford, and Sir Arthur Haslerig, and a considerable help given to the turning of the day, by defeating a regiment of the king's called the blue regiment.

By this time all the king's foot, excepting two regiments, were dispersed, and the parliamentarians had gotten the advantage of the wind, and that ground which their enemies had fought upon.

Those two regiments of the king's retiring themselves, and finding their ordnance behind them without any guard, took stand there, and made use of their cannon, discharging many shot against their enemies.

But at that time the parliament foot began to want powder, otherwise (as was observed by a commander in that army) they had charged them both with horse and foot ; which in all probability would have utterly ruined the king's infantry, consisting in a manner but of two regiments.

Thus the parliament army, partly for want of ammunition, and partly being tired with so long a fight (for the whole brunt of the battle had been sustained by two regiments of their horse and four or five of their foot), made no great haste to charge any more.

The king's horse, who had been long pillaging about Keynton, by this time had leisure to come about on both hands, and join themselves, to their foot ; but as they came back on the left hand of their enemies, Sir Philip Stapleton with his horse gave them a terrible charge, which they were not long able to endure,

but, finding a gap in an hedge, got from him upon the spur as fast as they could, to the rest of their broken troops, and so at last joined with their foot that stood by the ordnance.

And now on both sides the horse were gathered to their own foot, and so stood together both horse and foot, one against another, till it was night.

The parliament army being wholly possessed of the ground which their enemies had chosen to fight upon, stood upon it all

night, and in the morning returned to a warmer place near Keynton, where they had quartered the night before; for they were much pinched with cold, and the whole army in extreme want of victuals.

The king's army had withdrawn to the top of the hill for their more security, where they made great fires all the night long.

(From the Same.)

JAMES HOWELL

[The author of the Familiar Letters, which have made one of the most

popular books of English literature, was born about 1594. His pedigree

loses itself in the usual mists of Welsh royalty or chieftaincy, after the fashion

to be expected in a country where surnames were a late and doubtful im-

portation ; but his father was the parson of Abernant, in Carmarthenshire,

and his relationship to good Welsh families seems indisputable. His school

was Hereford, his college Jesus, Oxford, where he took his degree in 1613.

Howell, however, was pre-eminently a man of affairs. He obtained a recom-

mendation to his countryman Sir Robert Mansel, who with others had obtained a

patent for the manufacture of glass and was anxious to procure workmen from

abroad. Howell was sent to Venice and elsewhere on this business, as he was

later to Spain in hopes of recovering sums due to English merchants, at the

favourable moment of the Prince of Wales's intended marriage to the Infanta.

During the reign of Charles the First he had many public and semi-public

employments, and at last, just at the outbreak of the civil war, was made

Clerk to the Council. The employment brought him little but imprisonment

at the hands of the Parliament, and he lay in the Fleet till the war was over.

At the Restoration (though Howell's royalism, for all his imprisonment, was

not of a very thorough-going character) he was made Historiographer-Royal.

He survived that date six years and died in 1666. His Epistolæ Ho-Elianicæ

or Familiar Letters, in four books, appeared at intervals from 1645 to 1655.

He was also the author of a vast number of separate works, some of which

will be noticed below. The Letters were extremely popular, and after their

collection went into ten editions in about three-quarters of a century, while

they have had a considerable modern revival of popularity, and have never

been neglected by students and literary men. The most complete and careful

modern edition is that of Mr. Jacobs in 1890. The older ones are easily

accessible, and may have greater charms for some readers. Howell's Instruc-

tions for Foreign Travel was reprinted by Mr. Arber.]

IT has been observed more than once, and certainly with great

truth, of Howell, that he was a journalist born before his time ;

and it may be added that he was not only this, but even, by

anticipation, that peculiar and late kind of journalist known as

the special correspondent. He had a considerable knowledge of

literature, and, it would seem, a real, if not a very critical, love of

books ; but his bent was neither towards original production nor

towards pure study. To be active in affairs and to write about them ; to make popular summaries of history, politics, all manner of matters, especially those of passing interest--these were the tasks for which he was most inclined : and in undertaking and discharging them he was aided by a restless and rather adventurous temperament and a very considerable linguistic faculty. Hardly any kind of writing came amiss to him, prose, verse, or dictionary-making ; but of all his forty or fifty books or pamphlets there is no doubt that the Familiar Letters bear the bell. The four "books" of which they are composed are of very unequal value and, so to speak, genuineness. It has been suspected, and with great reason, that even in the earlier instalments Howell frequently patched and wrote up his old letters, and may sometimes have invented them whole. But there can be little doubt that many, if not most of the later epistles, are pure literary exercises, popular tractates or pamphlets in the guise of letters. Even these however are mostly readable ; and the earlier pieces are delightful. Howell has been accused of being a prig, which is harsh, and of being a coxcomb, which is true enough ; and he has other qualities which are not in themselves gifts or graces.

But his pedantry, his egotism, his adroit, if seldom quite abject flattery of the great, his spice of ill-nature now and then, his self-seeking and intriguing, present, as they are reflected in his style and matter, a spectacle by no means ugly, and very decidedly lively. And in this distinct and lively style he has abundance of interesting things to tell. His scraps and doles of book-learning are constantly contrasted with, and thrown up by, passages of sheer reporting, but reporting which is almost that of genius. In his travels and affairs he always had his eyes open, and could always describe what he saw. We may not attach strict credence to what he tells us of Raleigh's fate and Ben Jonson's foibles, of his own activity and ability, and of other people's mishaps or peccadilloes. But whether he is talking of these things, or of the manufacture of "barillia," or of the Oxenham white bird, or of the shocking adventure of Lieutenant Jaquette, with a much earlier and more mischievous Lady of Lyons, or of almost anything but the subjects of his later vamped-up essays and sometimes even of these--there is the attraction of the best "light" or "miscellaneous" writing. The thing is not specially edifying, but it is almost always amusing : if there is no great profit or any very exquisite pleasure in the reading, it is always an

agreeable pastime. Howell had had more predecessors than is generally thought in the attempt to furnish pastime of this kind ; but no one had yet acquired the perfect knack of furnishing it. He has something of the Boswellian touch in him, of the faculty of making us despise himself a little, but take an almost increased interest in his work, by reason of the way in which we look down on him. And much of his effect is due to pure matters of style and treatment, to his perfect clearness, to his mixture of the vernacular and the pedantic, nay to his very tags of mostly bad verse. A great writer he was not, but an extraordinarily clever and amusing one, with abundant distinction and idiosyncrasy, he was, and after more than two centuries, still is.

George Saintsbury.

THE MURDER OF BUCKINGHAM

(To the Right Honourable the Lady Scroop, Countess of Sunderland : from Stamford.)

MADAM—I lay yesternight at the post-house at Stilton, and this morning betimes the post-master came to my bed's head and told me the Duke of Buckingham was slain : my faith was not then strong enough to believe it, till an hour ago I met in the way with my Lord of Rutland (your brother) riding post towards London ; it pleased him to alight, and show me a letter wherein there was an exact relation of all the circumstances of this sad tragedy.

Upon Saturday last, which was but next before yesterday, being Bartholomew Eve, the Duke did rise up in a well-disposed humour out of his bed, and cut a caper or two, and being ready, and having been under the barber's hands (when the murderer had thought to have done the deed, for he was leaning upon the window all the while) he went to breakfast attended by a great company of Commanders, where Monsieur Soubize came unto him, and whispered him in the ear that Rochelle was relieved, the Duke seemed to slight the news, which made some think that Soubize went away discontented : after breakfast the Duke going out, Colonel Fryer stepped before him, and stopping him upon some business, and Lieutenant Felton being behind, made a thrust with a common tenpenny knife over Fryer's arm at the Duke, which lighted so fatally, that he slit his heart in two, leaving the knife sticking in the body : the Duke took out the knife, and threw it away, and laying his hand on his sword, and drawing it half out said, “The villain hath killed me” (meaning, as some think, Colonel Fryer), for there had been some difference betwixt them, so reeling against a chimney he fell down dead : the Duchess being with child hearing the noise below, came in her nightgears from her bed-chamber, which was in an upper

room, to a kind of rail, and thence beheld him weltering in

his own blood. Felton had lost his hat in the crowd, wherein

there was a paper sewed, wherein he declared that the reason

which moved him to this act was no grudge of his own, though

he had been far behind for his pay, and had been put by his

Captain's place twice, but in regard he thought the Duke an

enemy to the state, because he was branded in Parliament, there-

fore what he did was for the public good of his country. Yet he

got clearly down, and so might have gone to his horse which was

tied to a hedge hard by ; but he was so amazed that he missed

his way, and so struck into the pastry, where although the cry

went that some Frenchman had done it, he thinking the word

was Felton, he boldly confessed, 'twas he that had done the deed,

and so he was in their hands. Jack Stamford would have run at

him, but he was kept off by Mr. Nicholas, so, being carried up to

a tower, Captain Mince tore off his spurs, and asking how he

durst attempt such an act, making him believe the Duke was not

dead, he answered boldly that he knew he was dispatched, for

'twas not he, but the hand of heaven that gave the stroke, and

though his whole body had been covered over with armour of

proof he could not have avoided it. Captain Charles Price went

post presently to the King four miles off, who being at prayers on

his knees when it was told him, yet he never stirred, nor was he

disturbed a whit till all divine service was done. This was the

relation, as far as my memory could bear, in my Lord of Rutland's

letter, who willed me to remember him unto your Ladyship, and

tell you that he was going to comfort your niece (the Duchess) as

fast as he could : and so I have sent the truth of this sad story to

your Ladyship, as fast as I could by this Post, because I cannot

make that speed myself, in regard of some business I have to

dispatch for my Lord in the way ; so I humbly take my leave,

and rest

Your Ladyship's most dutiful servant,

J. H.

STAMFORD, Aug. 5, 1628.

(From Familiar Letters.)

240

ENGLISH PROSE

THE WHITE BIRD

To MR. E. D.

SIR—I thank you a thousand times for the noble entertainment you gave me at Berry, and the pains you took in shewing me the antiquities of that place. In requital, I can tell you of a strange thing I saw lately here, and I believe ’tis true: as I passed by St. Dunstan’s in Fleet Street the last Saturday, I stepped into a lapidary, or stone-cutter’s shop, to treat with the master for a stone to be put upon my father’s tomb : and casting my eyes up and down, I spied a huge marble with a large inscription upon it, which was thus to my best remembrance :

“Here lies John Oxenham, a goodly young man, in whose chamber, as he was struggling with the pangs of death, a bird with a white breast was seen fluttering about his bed, and so vanished.

“Here lies also Mary Oxenham, the sister of the said John, who died the next day, and the same apparition was seen in the room.”

Then another sister is spoke of. Then—

“Here lies hard by James Oxenham, the son of the said John, who died a child in his cradle a little after, and such a bird was seen fluttering about his head, a little before he expired, which vanished afterwards.”

At the bottom of the stone there is,

“Here lies Elizabeth Oxenham, the mother of the said John, who died sixteen years since, when such a bird with a white breast was seen about her bed before her death.”

To all these there be divers witnesses, both Squires and ladies, whose names are engraven upon the stone : this stone is to be sent to a town hard by Exeter, where this happened.

Were you here, I could raise a choice discourse with you hereupon. So hoping to see you the next term, to requite some of your favours, I rest

Your true friend to serve you,

J. H.

WESTMINSTER, 3 July, 1632.

(From the Same.)

JAMES HOWELL

241

HOWELL'S SABBATH DEVOTIONS

'Tis true, though there be rules and rubrics in our liturgy sufficient to guide every one in the performance of all holy duties, yet I believe every one hath some mode and model or formulary of his own, especially for his private cubical devotions.

I will begin with the last day of the week, and with the latter end of that day, I mean Saturday evening, on which I have fasted ever since I was a youth in Venice, for being delivered from a very great danger : this year I use some extraordinary acts of devotion to usher in the ensuing Sunday in hymns, and various prayers of my own penning before I go to bed.

On Sunday morning I rise earlier than upon other days, to prepare myself for the sanctifying of it ; nor do I use barber, tailor, shoemaker, or any other mechanic that morning, and whatsoever diversions, or lets may hinder me the week before, I never miss, but in case of sickness,to repair to God's Holy House that day, where I come before prayers begin, to make myself fitter for the work by some previous meditations, and to take the whole service along with me ; nor do I love to mingle speech with any in the interim about news or worldly negotiations in God's Holy House.

I prostrate myself in the humblest and decentest way of genuflection I can imagine: nor do I believe there can be any excess of exterior humility in that place : therefore I do not like those squatting unseemly bold postures upon one's tail, or muffling the face in the hat, or thrusting it in some hole, or covering it with one's hand : but with bended knee, and an open confident face, I fix my eyes on the east part of the church, and heaven.

I endeavour to apply every tittle of the service to my own conscience and occasions, and I believe the want of this, with the huddling up, and careless reading of some ministers, with the commonness of it, is the greatest cause that many do undervalue, and take a surfeit of our public service.

For the reading and singing psalms, whereas most of them are either petitions or eucharistical ejaculations, I listen to them more attentively, and make them my own ; when I stand at the creed, I think upon the custom they have in Poland, and elsewhere, for gentlemen to draw their swords all the while, intimating thereby, that they will defend it with their lives and blood :

And for the Decalogue, whereas others use to rise, and sit, I

VOL. II

R

ever kneel at it in the humblest and trembling'st posture of all, to crave remission for the breaches passed of any of God's holy commandments (especially the week before), and future grace to observe them.

I love a holy devout sermon, that first checks, and then cheers the conscience, that begins with the Law, and ends with the Gospel : but I never prejudicate or censure any preacher, taking him as I find him.

And now that we are not only adulted, but ancient christians, I believe the most acceptable sacrifice we can send up to heaven, is Prayer and Praise, and that sermons are not so essential as either of them to the true practice of devotion. The rest of the holy Sabbath, I sequester my body and mind as much as I can from wordly affairs.

(From the Same.)

THE PIED PIPER

To Mr. E. P.

Sir—I saw such prodigious things daily done these few years past, that I had resolved with myself to give over wondering at anything, yet a passage happened this week, that forced me to wonder once more, because it is without parallel. It was that some odd fellows went skulking up and down London streets, and with figs and raisins allured little children, and so purloined them away from their parents, and carried them a ship-board, far beyond sea, where by cutting their hair, and other devices, they so disguised them that their parents could not know them.

This made me think upon that miraculous passage in Hamelen, a town in Germany, which I hoped to have passed through when I was in Hamburg, had we returned by Holland, which was thus (nor would I relate it unto you were there not some ground of truth for it). The said town of Hamelen was annoyed with rats and mice : and it chanced that a pied-coated Piper came thither, who covenanted with the chief burghers for such a reward, if he could free them quite from the said vermin, nor would he demand it till a twelvemonth and a day after : the agreement being made, he began to play on his pipes, and all the rats and the mice followed him to a great lough hard by, where they all perished;

so the town was infected no more. At the end of the year, the

Pied Piper returned for his reward, the burghers put him off with

slightings, and neglect, offering him some small matter, which he

refusing, and staying some days in the town, one Sunday morning

at high mass, when most people were at church, he fell to play

on his pipes, and all the children up and down followed him out

of the town, to a great hill not far off, which rent in two, and

opened, and let him and the children in, and so closed up again.

This happened a matter of two hundred and fifty years since :

and in that town, they date their bills and bonds, and other in-

struments in law, to this day from the year of the going out of

their children : besides, there is a great pillar of stone at the foot

of the said hill, whereon this story is engraven.

No more now, for this is enough in conscience for one time :

so I am

Your most affectionate servitor,

J. H.

FLEET, 1 Octob. 1643.

(From the Same.)

WINES

FRANCE participating of the climes of all the countries about her,

affords wines of quality accordingly, as towards the Alps and Italy

she hath a luscious rich wine called Frontignac ; in the country

of Provence towards the Pyrenees : in Languedoc there are wines

concustable with those of Spain : one of the prime sort of white

wines is that of Beaune, and of clarets that of Orleans, though it

be interdicted to wine the King's cellar with it in respect of the

corrosiveness it carries with it. As in France so in all other wine-

countries the white is called the female, and the claret or red

wine is called the male, because commonly it hath more sulphur,

body and heat in't : the wines that our merchants bring over

grow upon the river Garonne, near Bordeaux, in Gascony, which

is the greatest mart for wines in all France ; the Scot, because

he hath always been an useful confederate to France against

England, hath (among other privileges) right of preemption or

first choice of wines in Bordeaux ; he is also permitted to carry

his ordnance to the very walls of the town, whereas the English

are forced to leave them at Blaye a good way distant down the river. There is a hard green wine that grows about Rochelle, and the islands thereabouts, which the cunning Hollander sometimes use to fetch, and he hath a trick to put a bag of herbs, or some other infusions into it (as he doth brimstone in Rhenish), to give it a whiter tincture, and more sweetness ; then they re-embark it for England, where it passeth for good Bachrag, and this is called stooming of wines. In Normandy there's little or no wine at all grows, therefore the common drink of that country is cider, specially in Low Normandy : there are also many beer-houses in Paris and elsewhere, but though their barley and water be better than ours, or that of Germany, and though they have English and Dutch brewers among them, yet they cannot make beer in that perfection.

The prime wines of Germany grow about the Rhine, specially in the Pfalts or lower Palatinate about Bachrag, which hath its etymology from Bacchiana, for in ancient times there was an altar erected there to the honour of Bacchus, in regard of the richness of the wines. Here and all France over, 'tis held a great part of incivility for maidens to drink wine until they are married, as it is in Spain for them to wear high shoes, or to paint till then. The German mothers, to make their sons fall into hatred of wine, do use when they are little to put some owl's eggs into a cup of Rhenish, and sometimes a little living eel, which twingling in the wine while the child is drinking so scares him, that many come to abhor and have an antipathy to wine all their lives after.

From Bachrag the first stock of vines which grow now in the Grand Canary Island were brought, which, with the heat of the sun and the soil, is grown now to that height of perfection, that the wine which they afford are accounted the richest, the most firm, the best-bodied, and lastingest wine, and the most defecated from all earthly grossness of any other whatsoever, it hath little or no sulphur at all in't, and leaves less dregs behind, though one drink it to excess : French wines may be said to pickle meat in the stomach, but this is the wine that digests, and doth not only breed good blood, but it nutrifieth also, being a glutinous substantial liquor : of this wine, if of any other, may be verified that merry induction, That good wine makes good blood, good blood causeth good humours, good humours cause good thoughts, good thoughts bring forth good works, good works carry a man to heaven, ergo good wine carrieth a man to heaven. If this be

true surely more English go to heaven this way than any other,

for I think there's more Canary brought into England than to all

the world besides. I think also there is a hundred times more

drunk under the name of Canary wine than there is brought in,

for Sherries and Malagas well mingled pass for Canaries in most

taverns, more often than Canary itself, else I do not see how

'twere possible for the vintner to save by it : or to live by his

calling, unless he were permitted sometimes to be a brewer.

When Sacks and Canaries were brought in first among us, they

were used to be drunk in Aquavitae measures, and 'twas held fit

only for those to drink of them who were used to carry their legs

in their hands, their eyes upon their noses, and an Almanack in

their bones : but now they go down every one's throat both young

and old like milk.

(From the Same.)

HEYLYN

[Peter Heylyn was born at Burford in Oxfordshire in 1600. From the School at Burford he passed first to Hart Hall (afterwards Magdalen Hall, and now Hertford College) and then to Magdalen College, Oxford, of which he became a Fellow in 1618. He soon acquired a reputation by his energy and learning, and in 1621, published the first edition of his Geography. Presently he entered upon the more dangerous ground of ecclesiastical controversy and became involved in disputes with Dr. Prideaux, whose leanings to Puritanism he disliked. Taken under the protection of Laud and the Court he became the chief literary exponent of the principles upon which Laud's policy was based. In the struggles which followed he was an extreme supporter of the Royalist party, and his chief antagonist was Williams, Bishop of Lincoln. He played a notable part in the prosecution of Prynne, the author of Histriomastix, and naturally when the tide turned he was one of the first marked out for vengeance by the Parliament and the Puritans. Misfortunes, poverty, persecution, and eventually blindnessness, did not quench his spirit. On the Restoration he recovered his position as Sub-dean of Westminster (which he had held along with other church preferments, although he never reached high ecclesiastical rank), but did not live long to enjoy the triumph of his party, dying in 1662.]

HEYLYN was a man of undoubted sincerity, of quick and active, if somewhat superficial, intellect, and of a temper which found satisfaction only in controversy. If, in his triumph, he often pressed the advantage hard against his antagonists, he accepted, with undaunted spirit, the fate of the conquered, and throughout his life he neither gave nor asked for quarter. His memory was enormous, and his learning various, although ill digested : and while he grasped clearly and tenaciously the principles of Laud's policy, and frequently had the best of his antagonists in arguments, he was without judgment, imagination, or any sense of proportion. He did not altogether lack wit, but his sarcasm is rough and boisterous rather than keen : and he rates Fuller for his digressions and his waywardness, being utterly incapable of sympathy with the happier moods of Fuller's humour. Wood gives us a portrait of the man—"of very mean port and presence" ;

so worn as to be "like a skeleton": and it answers to his mental equipment--narrow and precise in opinion; unassailable in self-confidence; condemning with equally unsparing hand the Romanists and the Puritans: but yet brave and honest according to his lights, and commanding respect for his invincible courage, and undaunted cheerfulness in defeat. Personally, he is said to have been kind and hospitable, although irascible and quick-tempered.

His controversial works were very numerous, and perhaps the most characteristic is the Examen Historicum, in which he attacked Fuller's Church History, and Sanderson's History of King Charles. His more important works were completed at the close of his busy life (when he was obliged, by failing eyesight, constantly to employ an amanuensis--on whose defects he is amusingly frank, as when he declares that he cannot quote a Greek verse, because his transcriber could not copy it correctly), and they were mostly published after his death. They are Ecclesia Restaurata or the History of the Reformation: Cyprianus Anglicus (the life of Archbishop Laud): and Aerius Redivivus (the history of Presbyterianism), in the title of which we may perhaps trace the same line of satire which made Swift ridicule the dissenters as Æolists. In all of them the character of the man shines through the style. They are written with considerable force and verve, which is most marked perhaps in the last, where he was attacking with all his heart a sect whom he detested. The diction is correct, but rarely rises to anything like eloquence, and owes its variety chiefly to an occasional homely raciness. But like all his contemporaries, Heylyn always avoids a slipshod style; and we are never allowed to forget that he belonged to a school which followed, as closely as it might, the classical models, and aimed at least, if it did not always succeed in its aim, at giving to history a worthy and dignified literary dress.

H. CRAIK.

FULLER AS AN HISTORIAN

PROCEED we in the next place to verses and old ends of poetry, scattered and dispersed in all parts of the history, from one end to the other; for which he hath no precedent in any historian, Greek or Latin, or any of the national histories of these latter times: the histories of Herodotus, Xenophon, Thucydides, and Plutarch, amongst the Greeks; of Cæsar, Livy, Sallust, Tacitus, and Suetonius amongst the Latins afford him neither warrant nor example for it: the like may be affirmed of Eusebius, Socrates, Sozomen, Theodoret, Ruffin, and Evagrius, Church historians all; though they had all the best choice and the most excellent poets of the world to befriend them in it: and he that shall consult the histories of succeeding times, through all the ages of the Church to this present day, will find them all as barren of any encouragements in this kind as the ancients were: nay, whereas Bishop Goodwin in his annals gives us an epitaph of two verses only made on Queen Jane Seymour, and afterwards a copy of eighteen verses on the martyrdom of Archbishop Cranmer; he ushers in the last with this short apology, "Contra morem Historiæ liceat quæso inserere," etc. Let me (saith he), I beseech you, insert these following verses, though otherwise against the rule and laws of history. But what, alas! were eighteen or twenty verses compared with those many hundred (six or seven hundred at the least) which we find in our author; whether to show the universality of his reading in all kind of writers, or his faculty in translating (which when he meets with hard copies he knows how to spare) I shall not determine at the present: certain I am, that by his interlarding of his prose with so many verses he makes the book look rather like a Church-romance (our late romancers being much given to such kind of mixtures) than a well-built ecclesiastical history. And if it be a matter so unconvenient to put a new piece of cloth on an old garment; the putting of so many old

patches on a new piece of cloth must be more unfashionable.

Besides that, many of those old ends are so light and ludicrous,

so little pertinent to the business which he has in hand, that they

serve only to make sport for children (ut pueris placeas et declam-

atio fias), and for nothing else.

This leads me to the next impertinency, his raking into the

channel of old popish legends, writ in the darker times of super-

stition, but written with an honest zeal, and a good intention : as

well to raise the reader to the admiration of the person of whom

they write, as to the emulation of his virtues : but being mixed

with some monkish dotages, the most learned and ingenious men

in the Church of Rome have now laid them by; and it had been

very well if our author had done so too, but that there must be

something of entertainment for the gentle reader, and to inflame

the reckoning which he pays not for. But above all things recom-

mend me to his merry tales, and scraps of trencher-jests, frequently

interlaced in all parts of the history ; which, if abstracted from the

rest, and put into a book by themselves, might very well be served

up for a second course to the Banquet of Jests, a supplement to

the old book entitled Wits, Fits, and Fancies; or an additional

century to the old Hundred Merry Tales, so long since extant.

But standing as they do, they neither do become the gravity of a

Church-historian, nor are consistent with the nature of a sober

argument. But, as it seems, our author came with the same

thoughts to the writing of this present history as poets anciently

addressed themselves to the writing of comedies, of which thus my

Terence :—

Poeta cum primum animum ad scribendum appulit,

Id sibi negotii credidit solum dari,

Populo ut placerent quas fecisset fabulas.

That is to say,

Thus poets, when their mind they first apply

In looser verse to frame a comedy,

Think there is nothing more for them to do.

Than please the people whom they speak unto.

(From Examen Historicum.)

A ROYAL PROGRESS

Having secured herself by this peace with France, and being

at no open enmity with the King of Spain, she resolves to give

herself some pleasure, and thereupon prepareth for her summer's progress. In the course whereof she bestowed a visit upon Cambridge on the 5th of August, where she was honourably received by Mr. Secretary Cecil, being then Chancellor of that University, together with all the Heads of Houses and other students, attired in their academical habits, according to their several and distinct degrees. Her lodging was provided in King's College; the days of her abode there spent in scholastical exercises of philosophy, physic, and divinity; the nights in comedies and tragedies, and other pleasing entertainments. On Wednesday the 7th of the same month she rode through the town, and took a view of all the colleges and halls—the godly monuments of the piety of her predecessors, and of so many men and women famous in their generations. Which done, she took leave of Cambridge in a Latin oration, in which she gave them great encouragement to pursue their studies; not without giving them some hopes, that if God spared her life and opportunity, she would erect some monument among them of her love to learning, which should not be inferior unto any of her royal ancestors. In which diversion she received such high contentment, that nothing could have seemed to be equal to it, but the like at Oxon, where she was entertained about two years after for seven days together, with the same variety of speeches, interludes, disputations, and other academical expressions of a public joy. In one point, that of Oxford seemed to have the pre-eminence, all things being there both given and taken with so even an hand, that there could be no ground for any emulation, strife, or discord to ensue upon it. But in the midst of these contentments which she had at Cambridge were sown the seeds of those divisions and combustions with which the Church hath been continually distracted to this very day. For so it happened, that Mr. Thomas Preston of King's College, and Mr. Thomas Cartwright of Trinity College were appointed for two of the opponents in a disputation; in which the first, by reason of his comely gesture, pleasing pronunciation, and graceful personage, was both liked and rewarded by her, the other receiving neither reward nor commendation; which so incensed the proud man, too much opinionated of himself and his own abilities, that he retired unto Geneva, where, having thoroughly informed himself of all particulars, both of doctrine and discipline, wherein the Churches of that platform differed from the Church of England, he returned home with an

intent to repair his credit, or rather to get himself a name (as did Erostratus in the burning of Diana's temple) by raising such a fire, such combustions in her, as were never to be extinguished (like the fire of Taberah) but by the immediate hand of heaven.

(From Ecclesia Restaurata.)

STRAFFORD AND THE KING

BUT now we must look back on the Earl of Strafford, the prosecution of whose impeachment had long been delayed upon some probable hope, that the displeasures of his greatest adversaries might be mitigated by some Court preferments.

In order whereunto it was agreed upon (if my intelligence or memory fail not) that the Earl of Bedford should be made lord treasurer, and Pym chancellor of the Exchequer, the Earl of Essex governor of the prince, and that Hampden should be made his tutor, the Lord Saye master of the wards, and Hollis principal secretary in place of Windebank ; the deputyship of Ireland was disposed of also, and some command appointed for the Earl of Warwick in the royal navy.

Which earls, together with the Earl of Hertford, and the Lord Kimbolton (eldest son to the Earl of Manchester) were taken at this time into his majesty's council, that they might witness to the rest of that party with what sincerity and piety his majesty's affairs were governed at the council table.

And in relation to this purpose the Bishop of London delivered to the king the treasurer's staff, the Earl of Newcastle relinquished the governance of the prince, and the Lord Cottington relinquished his offices both in the Exchequer and the Court of Wards ; there being no doubt but that Bishop Duppa in order to so good a work would relinquish the tutorship of the prince when it should be required of him : so gallantly did these great persons deny themselves to advance the service of their master.

But before all these things were fully settled and performed, the king's mind was altered (but by whom altered, hath been more conjectured than affirmed for certain), which so exasperated them who were concerned in this designation, that they pursued the Earl of Strafford with the greatest eagerness.

And somewhat to this purpose was hinted in the king's declaration of the 18th of August ; in which he signified what overtures had been made by them, and with what

importunity for offices and perferments, what great services should have been done for him, and what other undertaking even to have saved the life of the Earl of Strafford. By which discovery as he blemished the reputes of some principal members in the eyes of many of the people; so he gave no small cause of wonder to many others, when they were told from his own pen at how cheap rate (a rate which would have cost him nothing) he might have saved the life of such an able and deserving minister.

This design being thus unhappily dashed, the earl was called unto his trial on the 22nd day of March last past; which being continued many days with great expectation, his adversaries (though the ablest men in the House of Commons) perceived that his defences were so strong, and their proof so weak, that they thought it not safe to leave the judgment of the cause to the House of Peers in way of judicature. For finding that their proofs amounted not to a legal evidence; and that nothing but legal evidence could prevail in a court of judicature, they resolved to steer their course by another wind, and to call the legislative power to their assistance; according unto which both Lords and Commons might proceed by the light of their own understanding without further testimony. And so it was declared by Saint John, then solicitor-general, in a conference between the committees of both Houses, April 29, 1641. Where it is said, that although single testimony might be sufficient to satisfy private consciences, yet how far it would have been satisfactory in a judicial way, where forms of law are more to be stood upon, was not so clear; whereas in this way of Bill, private satisfaction to each man's conscience is sufficient, although no evidence had been given in at all. Thus they resolved it in this case; but knowing of what dangerous consequence it might be to the lives and fortunes of themselves and the rest of subjects, a saving clause was added to the Bill of Attainder, that it should not be drawn into example for the time to come. By which it was provided, that no judge or judges, justice or justices whatever, shall adjudge or interpret any act or thing to be treason, nor hear or determine any treason, nor in any other manner, than he or they should or ought to have done before the making of this Act, and as if this Act had never been made.

His Majesty understanding how things were carried, resolved to use his best endeavours to preserve the man who had deserved so bravely of him. And therefore, in a speech to both Houses of

Parliament on the first May, absolved him from all treasons charged upon him; conjuring them by the merit of his former graces, and the hopes of greater, not to compel him to do anything against his conscience, to which no worldly consideration whatever should be able to tempt him. This put the Lords to such a stand, who were before inclinable enough to that unfortunate gentleman, that multitudes of the rabble were brought down out of London and Southwark, to cry for speedy justice and execution; the names of such as had not voted to the bill, being posted up in the Palace Yard, by the title of Straffordians and enemies to the Commonwealth. Which course so terrified the Lords, that most of them withdrawing themselves from the House of Peers, the attainder passed, and certain bishops were nominated to attend the king, for satisfying his conscience, and persuading him to sign that destructive bill. Never was poor prince brought to so sad an exigent, between his conscience on one side and the fears of such a public rupture on the other as seemed to threaten nothing but destruction to himself and his family. But human frailty, and the continual solicitation of some about him, so prevailed at last, that on Monday morning, the 9th of May, he put a most unwilling hand to that fatal bill, issuing a commission unto certain lords to pass the same into an Act, and with the same to speed another (which he had also signed with the same penful of ink) for the continuance of the present Parliament during the pleasure of the Houses. The Act thus passed on Monday morning, the earl was brought unto the scaffold on the Wednesday following, desiring earnestly, but in vain, to exchange some words with the archbishop before his death; which gave occasion to a report that a little before his death he had charged his misfortunes, oversights, and misdemeanours upon the Archbishop of Canterbury, as the prime author of the same, and had bitterly cursed the day of their first acquaintance; which being so scandalous and dishonourable to this great prelate. I shall lay down the whole truth in this particular, as it came from the archbishop's own mouth, in the presence of Balfour, a Scot, and then lieutenant of the Tower, who was required to attest to each period of it.

(From Cyprianus Anglicus.)

PETER HEYLYN

255

JOHN KNOX

THE castle being yielded, and the country quieted, the French returned with their booty, of which their prisoners which they brought along with them made the principal part, not made the tamer by their sufferings in the enemy's galleys, insomuch that when the image of the Virgin Mary was offered to them to be kissed on some solemn occasion, one of them snatched it into his hands, flung it into the sea, and said unto them that brought it, in a jeering manner, that her ladyship was light enough, and might learn to swim. Which desperate and unadvised action (as it was no other) is said by Knox to have produced this good effect, that the Scots were never after tempted to the like idolatries. Knox at this time was prisoner in the galleys among the rest, and, with the rest, released upon the peace made between France and England, at the delivering up of Boulogne ; for which he passed over into England, where he was first made preacher at Berwick, next at Newcastle, afterwards to some church of London, and finally in some other places of the South : so that removing like our late itinerants from one church to another, as he could meet with entertainment, he kept himself within that sanctuary till the death of King Edward, and then betook himself to Geneva for his private studies. From hence he published his desperate doctrine of predestination, which he makes not only to be an impulsive to, but the compulsive cause of men's sins and men's wickednesses : from hence he published his traitorous and seditious pamphlet, entitled The First Blast of the Trumpet, in which he writes most bitterly, amongst other things, against the Regimen of Women, aiming therein particularly at the two Maries Queens of Scotland, Mary Queen of England, and Mary Queen-Dowager of Hungary, Governess of the Low Countries for Charles the Fifth : and finally, from hence he published another of the like nature, entitled An Admonition to Christians; in which he makes the Emperor Charles to be worse than Nero, and Mary Queen of England to be nothing better than Jezebel. According to which good beginning, he calls her in his history (but not published hence), that idolatrous and mischievous Mary of the Spaniard's blood, a cruel persecutrix of God's people, as the acts of her unhappy reign did sufficiently witness. In which he comes as close to Calvin as could be desired.

By this means he grew great with Calvin, and the most leading men of the Consistorians, who looked upon him as a proper engine to advance their purposes; but long he had not stayed amongst them, when he received an invitation from some friends of his of the same temper and affections, as it after proved, to take charge of the Church of Frankfort, to which some learned men and others of the English nation had retired themselves in the reign of Queen Mary: which call he first communicated unto Calvin, by whose encouragement and persuasion he accepted of it, and by his coming rather multiplied than appeased the quarrels which he found amongst them; but siding with the inconformable party, and knowing so much of Calvin's mind touching the liturgy and rites of the Church of England, he would by no means be persuaded to officiate by it; and for that cause was forced by Dr. Cox, and others of the learned men who remained there, to forsake the place, as hath been shown at large in another place. Outed at Frankfort, he returns again to his friends at Geneva; and being furnished with instructions for his future carriage in the cause of his ministry, he prepares for his journey into Scotland, passeth to Dieppe, from thence to England, and at last came, a welcome man, to his native country, which he found miserably divided into sides and factions. Mary their infant Queen had been transported into France at six years of age; the regency, taken from James, Earl of Arran, given to Mary of Lorraine, the Queen's mother, not well obeyed by many of the nobility and great men of the country, but openly opposed and reviled by those who seemed to be inclinable to the Reformation. To these men Knox applied himself with all care and cunning, preaching from place to place, and from house to house, as opportunity was given him. In which he gathered many churches, and set up many congregations, as if he had been the apostle-general of the Kirk of Scotland; in all points holding a conformity unto Calvin's platform, even to the singing of David's Psalms in the English metre, the only music he allowed of in God's public service. From villages and private houses he ventured into some of the great towns and more eminent cities, and at the last appeared in Edinburgh itself, preaching in all, and ministering the communion in many places, as he saw occasion. This was sufficient to have raised a greater storm against him than he could have been able to endure; but he must make it worse by a new provocation. For at the persuasion of the Earl of Glencairn, and some others of his principal

followers, he writes a long letter to the Queen Regent, in which

he earnestly persuades her to give ear to the Word of God,

according as it was then preached by himself and others : which

letter being communicated by the queen to the Archbishop of

Glasgow, and dispersed in several copies by Knox himself, gave

such a hot alarm to the bishops and clergy, that he was cited to

appear in Blackfriars' Church in Edinburgh, on the 15th of May :

and though upon advertisement that he came accompanied with

so great a train, that it could not be safe for them to proceed

against him, he was not troubled at that time, yet he perceived

that having made the queen his enemy, he could not hope to

remain longer in that kingdom, but first or last he must needs fall

into their hands.

(From Aerius Redivivus.)

VOL. II

S

WILLIAM CHILLINGWORTH

[William Chillingworth, the son of a citizen of Oxford, was born in 1602 ; Laud, then a Fellow of St. John's, was his godfather. Entered at Trinity College in 1618, he graduated two years later, and, in 1628, he was elected a Fellow of his College. He took from the first an active part in the " Romish " controversy, which then agitated the University, frequently meeting in debate one John Fisher, a Jesuit, who ultimately convinced him that the only refuge from distracting religious conflict was in the bosom of the infallible Roman Catholic Church. Chillingworth went to Douay in 1630, but returned to Oxford in the following year, and, three years later, declared himself to be again a Protestant, though not yet an Anglican. It was not till after the publication of his great work, The Religion of Protestants a safe way to Salvation, that he consented to subscribe the Articles, and accept the Chancellorship of Salisbury. Chillingworth was a close friend of Lord Falkland, and with him took the side of Charles the First against the Parliament. He was taken prisoner on the fall of Arundel Castle, where he had lain ill during the siege, and was almost literally talked to death in January 1644 by Francis Cheynell, a Puritan minister, who attended his funeral, and buried his " corrupt rotten book " with him.]

Chillingworth had not the reputation of great scholarship. He was rather an incomparable debater. The picture of him walking in Trinity Gardens looking for some one to argue with shows the habit of the man. Yet he never argued merely to secure a triumph over an adversary. His temporary conversion to Roman Catholicism proves his earnestness. Yet it may fairly be said that this single translation of theory into practice sufficed him. He did not again face the practical issues of his speculations. Though he arrived at a rationalism that was inconsistent with the idea of a Church, he signed the Articles, as a basis of peace and union, with a subscription which satisfied Laud. Rationalism and toleration were Chillingworth's guiding principles. He recognised the voice of God spoken in Scripture as the only authority in religion, and he allowed the free right of individual reason to interpret the Bible. The final appeal to the Bible separated him from the Anglicans of Laud's school on the one

hand; and on the other his latitudinarianism roused the bitter hatred of Cheynell and his Puritan friends. The Religion of Protestants was a contribution to a controversy between Edward Knott, a Jesuit, and Dr. Potter, Provost of Queen's College, Oxford. Knott opened with a book styled Charity mistaken, with the want whereof Catholics are unjustly charged for affirming, as they do with grief, that Protestancie, unrepented, destroys Salvation. Potter retorted with a volume styled Want of Charity justly charged on all such Romanists as dare (without truth and modesty) affirm that Protestancie destroyeth Salvation. It was to the Jesuit's second assault, a pamphlet headed Mercy and Truth or Charity maintained by Catholics, that Chillingworth set himself to reply in his Religion of Protestants. This work is a model of elaborate and close reasoning. Indeed, its elaborateness and closeness stagger the modern student, who is not accustomed to find a matter so taken from the root up. Chillingworth aimed at perfect balance and absolute fairness. He fought his adversary preface by preface, and chapter by chapter, and placed every argument he had to meet before the reader in full and in front of his own answer to it. It is necessary, therefore, to penetrate a dense mass of minor ideas and issues, mainly irrelevant, before reaching the heart of the matter. Yet Chillingworth never relaxes hold of his chief argumentation, never loses sight of the real end which he has in view, and which is not so much to put down the arrogance of Rome and defend the dignity of the Church of England, as to assert the right of free inquiry, and the necessity for personal conviction. The desideratum of both disputants was an infallible means of determining religious truth. Knott maintained that the source of certitude was the Roman Catholic Church. Chillingworth on the other hand, held that the Bible, and the Bible only, was the religion of Protestants. That, of course, is the common doctrine of Protestantism. It is valid only so long as there is general agreement as to the interpretation of the Bible. Chillingworth's contribution to theology is this gloss upon it, that the great principles of religion, as contained in Scripture, are too plain to be mistaken-they are embraced in the Apostle's Creed; Christians may safely differ upon those matters of speculation which divide the sects. For a plain workaday rule he lays it down that "nothing is necessary to be believed but what is plainly revealed." Scripture tested, save in fundamentals, by the free open mind-the "right

reason " he called it—was for Chillingworth the sole source of

religious certainty. He bowed to no authority, save the universal

tradition which was the common warrant for belief in the Bible.

Reason must rule—it being, indeed, a plain improbability for any

man to submit his reason but to reason. Chillingworth's argu-

mentative clearness was regarded by Locke as a model. His

style is, indeed, admirably suited at once to the matter and to the

form of his work. He commands a considerable vocabulary, and

although his sentences are often loosely constructed, he writes,

when he is at his best, with point and carefully chosen phrase.

His rhetorical weapons are retort and homely illustration. His

manner of building up an argument is, indeed, worthy of Locke's

encomium. If he desires to deal a specially heavy blow he re-

duces his reasoning to a formal syllogism, and crushes his

opponent with it. He has a keen scent for a fallacy, and exposes

one when he finds it with trenchant humour. He never con-

descends to quibbling, but all throughout an argument maintains

a dignity which, more than anything else, gave him his strength

in debate. It was a mind of no common order that could give

unity to a work constructed on such a plan as The Religion of

Protestants. Even in the graces of composition, Chillingworth

excels his contemporaries. The flexibility and pointedness of his

style are virtues as great as the richness and power of Hooker's

and Bacon's, and, for his purpose, of greater value. The heat

of debate sometimes hurries him into undue vehemence, but he

never loses his temper. His other works are not important.

These are nine sermons, a series of tracts entitled Additional

Discourses, and a fragment called The Apostolic Institution of

Episcopacy demonstrated, in which he maintains that Episcopacy

is not repugnant to the government settled in and for the Church

by the Epistles.

W. Wallace.

SCRIPTURE INTELLIGIBLE

BUT, speaking truly and properly, the Scripture is not a judge, nor cannot be, but only a sufficient rule for those to judge by that believe it to be the Word of God (as the Church of England and the Church of Rome both do), what they are to believe, and what they are not to believe. I say, sufficiently perfect and sufficiently intelligible in things necessary to all that have understanding, whether they be learned or unlearned. And my reason hereof is convincing and demonstrative, because nothing is necessary to be believed but what is plainly revealed. For to say, that when a place of Scripture, by reason of ambiguous terms, lies indifferent between divers senses, whereof one is true and the other is false, that God obliges men, under pain of damnation, not to mistake through error and human frailty, is to make God a tyrant ; and to say that He requires us certainly to attain that end, for the attaining whereof we have no certain means ; which is to say, that, like Pharaoh, He gives no straw, and requires brick ; that He reaps where He sows not ; that He gathers where He strews not ; that He will not be pleased with our utmost endeavours to please Him, without full, and exact, and neverfailing performance ; that His will is that we should do what He knows we cannot do ; that He will not accept of us according to that which we have, but requireth of us what we have not. Which whether it can consist with His goodness, and His wisdom, and with His Word, I leave to honest men to judge. If I should send a servant to Paris, or Rome, or Jerusalem, and he using his utmost diligence not to mistake his way, yet notwithstanding meeting often with such places where the road is divided into several ways, whereof every one is as likely to be false as any other, should at length mistake and go out of the way, would not any man say that I were an impotent, foolish, and unjust master, if I should be offended with him for so doing? And shall we not tremble to impute that to God which we would take in foul scorn if it were imputed to ourselves?

Certainly, I for my part fear I should not love God if I should think so strangely of Him.

Again, when you say that unlearned and ignorant men cannot understand Scripture, I would desire you to come out of the clouds, and tell us what you mean ; whether, that they cannot understand any Scripture, or that they cannot understand so much as is sufficient for their direction to heaven.

If the first, I believe the learned are in the same case. If the second, every man's experience will confute you ; for who is there that is not capable of a sufficient understanding of the story, the precepts, the promises, and the threats of the Gospel ?

If the third, that they may understand something but not enough for their salvation ; I ask you, first, Why then doth St. Paul say to Timothy, The Scriptures are able to make him wise unto salvation ?

Why doth St. Austin say, Ea quæ manifeste posita sunt in sacris scripturis, omnia continent quæ pertinent ad fidem, moresque vivendi ?

Why does every one of the four Evangelists entitle their book, The Gospel, if any necessary and essential part of the Gospel were left out of it ?

Can we imagine that either they omitted something necessary out of ignorance, not knowing it to be necessary ? or, knowing it to be so, maliciously concealed it ? or, out of negligence, did the work they had undertaken by halves.

If none of these things can without blasphemy be imputed to them, considering they were assisted by the Holy Ghost in this work, then certainly it most evidently follows that every one of them, writ the whole Gospel of Christ ; I mean, all the essential and necessary parts of it.

So that if we had no other book of Scripture but one of them alone, we should not want anything necessary to salvation.

And what one of them hath more than another, it is only profitable, and not necessary ; necessary indeed to be believed, because revealed ; but not therefore revealed because it is necessary to be believed.

Neither did they write only for the learned, but for all men.

This being one special means of the preaching of the Gospel, which was commanded to be preached, not only to learned men, but to all men.

And therefore, unless we will imagine the Holy Ghost and them to have been wilfully wanting to their own desire and purpose, we must conceive that they intended to speak plain, even to the capacity of the simplest ; at least, touching all things necessary to be published by them and believed by us.

(From The Religion of Protestants a Safe Way to Salvation.)

264

ENGLISH PROSE

FAITH AND UNDERSTANDING

THE third condition you require to faith is, that our assent to Divine truths should not only be unknown and unevident by any human discourse, but that absolutely also it should be obscure in itself, and, ordinarily speaking, be void even of supernatural evidence. Which words must have a very favourable construction, or they will not be sense. For who can make anything of these words, taken properly, that faith must be an unknown, unevident assent, or an assent absolutely obscure ? I had always thought that known and unknown, obscure and evident, had been affections not of our assent, but the object of it; not of our belief, but the thing believed. For well may we assent to a thing unknown, obscure, or unevident ; but that our assent itself should be called therefore unknown or obscure, seems to me as great an impropriety, as if I should say, your sight were green or blue, because you see something that is so. In other places, therefore, I answer your words, but here I must answer your meaning ; which I conceive to be, that it is necessary to faith that the objects of it, the points which we believe, should not be so evidently certain, as to necessitate our understanding to an assent, that so there might be some merit in faith, as you love to speak (who will not receive, no, not from God himself, but a pennyworth for a penny), but as we, some obedience in it, which can hardly have place where there is no possibility of disobedience ; as there is not, where the understanding does all, and the will nothing. Now, seeing the religion of Protestants, though it be much more credible than yours, yet is not pretended to have the absolute evidence of sense or demonstration ; therefore I might let this doctrine pass without exception, for any prejudice that can redound to us by it. But yet I must not forbear to tell you, that your discourse proves indeed this condition requisite to the merit, but yet not to the essence of faith ; without it faith were not an act of obedience, but yet faith may be faith without it ; and this you must confess, unless you will say either the apostles believed not the whole Gospel which they preached, or that they were not eye-witnesses of a great part of it ; unless you will question St. John for saying, “That which we have seen with our eyes, and which our hands have handled, etc., declare we unto

you" ; nay, our Saviour himself for saying, "Thomas, because

thou seest, thou believest ; blessed are they which have not seen,

and yet have believed." Yet, if you will say, that in respect of

the things which they saw, the apostles' assent was not pure and

proper and mere faith, but somewhat more, an assent containing

faith, but superadding to it, I will not contend with you, for it

will be a contention about words. But then again I must crave

leave to tell you, that the requiring this condition is, in my judg-

ment a plain revocation of the former. For had you made the

matter of faith either naturally or supernaturally evident, it might

have been a fitly attempered and duly proportioned object for an

absolute certainty natural or supernatural, but requiring as you

do, "that faith should be an absolute knowledge of a thing not

absolutely known, an infallible certainty of a thing, which though

it is in itself, yet is not made to us to appear to be, infallibly

certain," to my understanding you speak impossibilities. And

truly for one of your religion to do so, is but a good decorum.

For the matter and object of your faith being so full of con-

tradictions, a contradictory faith may very well become a con-

tradictious religion. Your faith, therefore, if you please to have

it so, let it be a free, necessitated, certain, uncertain, evident,

obscure, prudent and foolish, natural and supernatural, unnatural

assent. But they which are unwilling to believe nonsense them-

selves, or persuade others to do so, it is but reason they should

make the faith, wherewith they believe, an intelligible, com-

possible, consistent thing, and not define it by repugnances.

Now nothing is more repugnant, than that a man should be

required to give most certain credit unto that which cannot be

made to appear most certainly credible ; and if it appear to him

to be so, then it is not obscure that it is so. For if you speak of

an acquired rational, discursive faith, certainly these reasons,

which make the object seem credible, must be the cause of it ;

and consequently the strength and firmity of my assent must rise

and fall, together with the apparent credibility of the object. If

you speak of a supernatural infused faith, then you either suppose

it infused by the former means, and then that which was said

before must be said again ; for whatsoever effect is wrought

merely by means, must bear proportion to, and cannot exceed,

the virtue of the means by which it is wrought. As nothing by

water can be made more cold than water, nor by fire more hot

than fire, nor by honey more sweet than honey, nor by gall more

bitter than gall : or if you will suppose it infused without means,

then that power which infuseth into the understanding assent,

which bears analogy to sight in the eye, must also infuse evidence,

that is, visibility into the object : and look what degree of assent

is infused into the understanding, at least, the same degree of

evidence must be infused into the object. And for you to

require a strength of credit beyond the appearance of the object's

credibility, is all one as if you should require me to go ten mile

an hour upon a horse that will go but five; to discern a man

certainly through a mist or cloud, that makes him not certainly

discernible ; to hear a sound more clearly than it is audible ; to

understand a thing more fully than it is intelligible : and he that

doth so, I may well expect that his next injunction will be, that I

must see something that is invisible, hear something inaudible,

understand something that is wholly unintelligible. For he that

demands ten of me, knowing I have but five, does in effect as if

he demanded five, knowing that I have none : and by like reason,

you requiring that I should see things further than they are

`visible, require I should see something invisible ; and in requiring

that I believe something more firmly than it is made to me

evidently credible, you require in effect that I believe something

which appears to me incredible, and while it does so. I deny

not but that I am bound to believe the truth of many texts of

Scripture, the sense whereof is to me obscure, and to human

understandings incomprehensible ; but then it is to be observed,

that not the sense of such texts, nor the manner of these things,

is that which I am bound to believe, but the truth of them. But

that I should believe the truth of anything, the truth whereof

cannot be made evident with an evidence proportionable to the

degree of faith required of me, this I say for any man to be bound

to do is unjust and unreasonable, because to do it is impossible.

(From the Same.)

SAMUEL RUTHERFORD

[Rutherford was born near Jedburgh in 1600, and educated at Edinburgh University, where he became Professor of Humanity in 1623. In 1625 he left the University, and from 1627 to 1639 (with a temporary ejection for non-conformity), he was minister of Anwoth in Galloway. In 1639 he was appointed Professor of Divinity at St. Andrews. From 1642 to 1647 he was in London as a member of the Westminster Assembly of Divines. On his return he became Principal of the New College in St. Andrews, and subsequently Rector of the University. He died in 1661. His principal works were Exercitationes Apologetica (Amsterdam, 1636), Plea for Paul's Presbytery in Scotland (1642), The Due Right of Presbyteries, and Lex, Rex (1644), The Trial and Triumph of Faith (sermons, 1645), Divine Right of Church Government and Excommunication (1646), Christ Dying and Drawing Sinners to Himself (sermons, 1647), A Survey of the Spiritual Antichrist (1648), A Free Disputation against Pretended Liberty of Conscience (1649), The Covenant of Life Opened (1655), Influences of the Life of Grace (1659), and An Examination of Arminianism, and the Letters (dating from 1639 to 1661), both of which were published posthumously. Several editions of the Letters have been issued in the present century, and at least one of Lex, Rex.]

RUTHERFORD is a writer most of whose works have a memorial only in the graveyard of history. There was a moment when the Church which Knox had founded in the North seemed about to triumph in England also. Rutherford was at that moment the literary champion of Presbytery, and as such he was pilloried by Milton in the famous sonnet : "On the new Forcers of Con-science," ending in the line "New presbyter is but old priest writ large." His principal controversial work, Lex, Rex: The Law and the Prince, a Dispute for the just Prerogative of King and People, is a medley of politics and theology. In this book the revolutionary theories of the Scottish school which Buchanan and Knox had inaugurated, were for the first time expounded for the practical guidance of Englishmen. Fifty years before, Sir Robert Cecil expressed the current theory of sovereignty, when he described himself as "A vassal to the Creator's celestial crea-

ture," Queen Elizabeth. Fifty years later, the great preacher Bourdaloue, who was nothing if not sincere, assured James the Second's exiled queen, Mary of Modena, in a sermon before the French Court, that God had chosen her "to display united in her person all the perfection of Christianity, with all the greatness of the age." Rutherford sought to bring kings and queens from heaven to earth. He argued that the right to rule is divine only in so far as it is based upon a justly observed contract, express or implied, between ruler and people. "What excellency he hath as a man is the excellency of one mortal man, and cannot make him eminent in dignity, and in the absolute consideration of the excellency of a man, to be above many men and a whole kingdom." Nor is the ruler above criticism, for "in the Pastors, Doctors, and Elders of the Church, there is a ministerial power, as servants under Christ, in His authority and name, to rebuke and censure kings." On such a theory self-defence against a sovereign, and even retaliation, are obviously in certain circumstances quite justifiable. Lex; Rex was not a philosophical treatise, such as the Leviathan. Both in form and in substance it was a long pamphlet, adapted to the needs of the moment; it had a great vogue in the five years preceding the execution of Charles I., and again, in the next generation, among the Covenanters. The Revolution of 1688 justified its principles, but at the same time extinguished its vitality, for it had not the saving gift of style, and its scholastic argumentation could not in any case have long outlived the seventeenth century. Rutherford's other controversial works are mainly directed against the Arminians and Antinomians, who have ceased to be interesting save in the pages of Hudibras.

We pass from the brawls of the market-place to the cloistered, star-lit seclusion of those Letters, which the evangelical succes-sion, from Baxter to Spurgeon, has united to declare seraphic and divine. Like Knox, Rutherford was a great father-confessor or director of souls. Knox, however, was no mystic. Rutherford had a quasi-oriental faculty of self-absorption in his ideal of "heavenly love." This quality received partial expression in his sermons, but it is in his letters, where he was under no restraint, that its full development appears. The letters are the unstringing of a bent bow, the channel by which he delivered his soul. They are full of sympathy, but it is the sympathy rather of an angel writing from the seventh heaven than of a fellow-man. As an

illustration, it may suffice to compare his efforts at consolation with those of two other men of a different stamp. Take a letter from Oliver Cromwell to his brother-in-law, whose son had been killed at Marston Moor. "Sir, God hath taken away your eldest son by a cannon-shot. It brake his leg. We were necessitated to have it cut off, whereof he died. Sir, you know my own trials this way; but the Lord supported me with this, that the Lord took him into the happiness we all pant for, and live for. . . . You have cause to bless the Lord. He is a glorious saint in heaven ; wherein you ought exceedingly to rejoice." Here the sympathy is concrete and visible, but the tone is almost Roman in its repression. Take again, a letter from Fénelon to the Duc de Chevreuse. "Monsieur votre fils réussissait au milieu du monde empesté: c'est ce succès qui afflige, et c'est ce succès qui a fait trancher le fil de ses jours, par un conseil de miséricorde pour lui et pour les siens. Il faut adorer Dieu, et se taire."

What an admirable delicacy and tenderness of touch, with just a shade of artifice! The cause for rejoicing, which Cromwell expresses with a soldier's bluntness, Fénelon barely suggests. Now take one of Rutherford's letters to a mother on the death of her child. "A going down star is not annihilated, but shall appear again. If he hath casten his bloom and flower, the bloom is fallen in heaven in Christ's lap ; and as he was lent a while to time, so is he given now to eternity, which will take yourself ; and the difference of your shipping and his to heaven and Christ's shore, the land of life, is only in some few years, which weareth every day shorter, and some short and soon-reckoned summers will give you a meeting with him. But what, with him? Nay, with better company—with the Chief and Leader of the heavenly troops, that are riding on white horses, that are triumphing in glory. . . . Let all your visitations speak all the letters of your Lord's summons. They cry, O vain world! O bitter sin! O short and uncertain time! O fair eternity, that is above sickness and death! O kingly and princely bridegroom! hasten glory's marriage, m shorten time's short-spun and soonbroken thread, and conquer sin! O happy and blessed death, that golden bridge laid over by Christ my Lord, betwixt time's clay-banks and heaven's shore!" Rutherford, let it be noticed, first presents a vivid picture of those aspects of death which are most consolatory, and so far he is at one with Fénelon and Cromwell ; but having done this, he goes further : he becomes

aggressor instead of suppliant, and commands, rather than entreats, the sufferer to share his own ecstatic vision. This gift of communicating a fervid enthusiasm is the secret of his style, as it appears in the letters ; but it has powerful allies in the aptness of his comparisons, in an abundant flow of racy Scottish idiom, in the simplicity and vigour of his metaphors (which with two principal exceptions are mainly chosen from out-door country life), and in his ready mintage of golden sayings which can be withdrawn and enshrined. The exceptional metaphors that give an air of alternate extravagance and quaintness to nearly every page of the Letters are borrowed, somewhat incongruously, from the imagery of the Song of Solomon, and from the devious practice of old Scots Law. Those of the former class at times sound in modern ears painfully grotesque and irreverent, and blemish the artistic form of a correspondence otherwise, of its kind, unmatched in our literature. But similar allusions may be found in the works of Crashaw and Baxter, to mention only two of Rutherford's contemporaries, and we must not forget that the seventeenth-century Puritan revelled in symbolical interpretation, and demanded an unrestrained expression of personal religious experience. The Letters, as a Puritan classic, deserve a place beside The Saint's Rest and The Pilgrim's Progress.

JAMES MILLER DODDS.

FLIGHT NO LAWFUL MEANS OF ESCAPE FOR AN OPPRESSED PEOPLE

Now a private man may fly, and that is his second necessity, and violent re-offending is the third mean of self-preservation. But with leave, violent re-offending is necessary to a private man, when his second mean, to wit, flight, is not possible, and cannot attain the end, as in the case of David : if flight do not prevail, Goliath's sword and an host of armed men are lawful. So to a church and a community of Protestants, men, women, aged, sucking children, sick, and diseased, who are pressed either to be killed, or forsake religion and Jesus Christ, flight is not the second mean, nor a mean at all, because, (1) not possible, and therefore not a natural mean of preservation : for 1st, the aged, the sick, the sucking infants, and sound religion in the posterity cannot flee, flight here is physically and by nature's necessity unpossible, and therefore no lawful mean. 2nd, if Christ have a promise that the ends of the earth (Ps. ii. 8) and the isles shall be His possession (Isa. xlix. 1), I see not how natural defence can put us to flee, even all Protestants, and their seed, and the weak and sick, whom we are obliged to defend as ourselves, both by the law of nature and grace.

I read that seven wicked nations and idolatrous were cast out of their land to give place to the Church of God, to dwell there ; but show me a warrant in nature's law and in God's word that three kingdoms of Protestants, their seed, aged, sick, sucking children, should flee out of England, Scotland, Ireland, and leave religion and the land to a king and to papists, prelates and bloody Irish, and atheists : and therefore to a church and community having God's right and man's law to the land, violent re-offending is their second mean (next to supplications and declarations, etc.), and flight is not required of them, as of a private man. Yea, flight is not necessarily required of a private man, but where it is a possible mean of self-preservation,

violent and unjust invasion of a private man, which is unavoidable may be obviated with violent re-offending. Now the unjust invasion made on Scotland in 1640, for refusing the service-book, or rather the idolatry of the Mass, therein intended, was unavoidable, it was unpossible for the Protestants, their old and sick, their women and sucking children to flee over sea, or to have shipping betwixt the king's bringing an army on them at Duns-law, and the prelates charging of the ministers to receive the mass-book. Althusius saith well, "Though private men may flee ; but the estates if they flee, they do not their duty to commit a country, religion and all to a lion." Let not any object, we may not devise a way to fulfil the prophecy (Ps. ii. 8, 9, Isa. xlix. 1). It is true, if the way be our own sinful way ; nor let any object, a colony went to New-England and fled the persecution. Answer, true, but if fleeing be the only mean after supplication, there was no more reason that one colony should go to New-England, than it is necessary and by a divine law obligatory, that the whole Protestants in the three kingdoms according to Royalists' doctrine, are to leave their native country and religion to one man and to popish idolators and atheists willing to worship idols with them ; and whether then shall the Gospel be, which we are obliged to defend with our lives?

(From Lex, Rex.)

LETTER TO JEAN BROWN

MISTRESS—grace, mercy, and peace be to you. I am glad that ye go on at Christ's back in this dark and cloudy time. It were good to sell other things for Him ; for when all these days are over, we shall find it our advantage that we have taken part with Christ. I confidently believe His enemies shall be His footstool, and that He shall make green flowers, dead, withered hay, when the honour and glory shall fall off them, like the bloom or flower of a green herb shaken with the wind. It were not wisdom for us to think that Christ and the Gospel will come and sit down at our fireside ; nay, but we must go out of our warm houses and seek Christ and His Gospel. It is not the sunny side of Christ that we must look to, and we must not forsake Him for want of that ; but must set our face against what may befall us in follow-

ing on, till He and we be through the briars and bushes on the dry ground. Our soft nature would be borne through the troubles of this miserable life in Christ's arms. And it is His wisdom, who knoweth our mould, that His bairns go wet-shod and cold-footed to heaven. Oh how sweet a thing were it for us to learn to make our burdens light by framing our hearts to the burden, and making our Lord's will a law ! I find Christ and His cross not so ill to please, nor yet such troublesome guests as men call them. Nay, I think patience should make Christ's water good wine, and this dross good metal ; and we have cause to wait on, for ere it be long our Master will be at us, and bring this whole world out before the sun and the daylight in their blacks and whites. Happy are they who are found watching. Our sand-glass is not so long as we need to weary : time will eat away, and root out our woes and sorrow : our heaven is in the bud, and growing up to an harvest, why then should we not follow on, seeing our span-length of time will come to an inch ? Therefore, I commend Christ to you, as your last living and longest living Husband, and the staff of your old age : let Him have now the rest of your days ; and think not much of a storm upon the ship that Christ saileth in ; there shall no passenger fall overboard ; but the crazed ship and the sea-sick passenger shall come to land safe. I am in as sweet communion with Christ as a poor sinner can be ; and am only pained that He hath much beauty and fairness, and I little love ; He great power and mercy, and I little faith ; He much light, and I bleared eyes. O, that I saw him in the sweetness of His love, and in His marriage clothes, and were over head and ears in love with that Princely One, Christ Jesus my Lord ! Alas, my riven dish and running-out vessel can hold little of Christ Jesus ! I have joy in this, that I would not refuse death before I put Christ's lawful heritage in men's trysting ; and what know I, if they would have pleased both Christ and me? Alas ! that this land that put Christ to open rouping and to an "Any man more bids?" Blessed are they who would hold the crown on His head, and buy Christ's honour with their own losses. I rejoice to hear your son John is coming to visit Christ and taste of His love. I hope he shall not lose his pains, or rue of that choice. I had always (as I said often to you) a great love to dear Mr. John Brown, because I thought I saw Christ in him more than in his brethren ; fain would I write to him, to stand by my sweet

VOL. II

T

Master, and I wish ye would let him read my letter, and the joy

I have, if he will appear for, and side with my Lord Jesus.

Grace, grace be with you.—Yours, in his sweet Lord Jesus.

S. R.

ABERDEEN, 13th March 1637.

(From the Letters.)

VIOLENT AND NATURAL DEATH

Violence more or less is an accident of death, as it is the same

hand folded in, or the fingers stretched out ; violent death is but

death on horseback, and with wings, or a stroke with the fist, as

the other death is a blow with the palms of the hand. Natural

death is death going on foot, and creeping with a slower pace ;

violent death unites all its forces at once, and takes the city by

storm, and comes with sourer and blacker visage. Death natural

divides itself in many several bits of deaths ; old age being a long

spun out death, and nature seems to render the city more

willingly, and death comes with a whiter and a milder visage ;

the one has a salter bite, and teeth of steel and iron ; the other

has softer fingers, and takes asunder the boards of the clay-

tabernacle more leisurely, softly, tenderly, and with less din, as

not willing that death should appear death, but a sleep ; the

violent death is as when apples green and raw are plucked off

the tree, or when flowers in the bud, and young, are plucked up

by the roots ; the other way of dying is, as when apples are

ripened and are filled with well-boiled summer sap, and fall off

the tree of their own accord in the eater's mouth ; or when

flowers wither on the stalk. Some dying full of days have like

banqueters, a surfeit of time, others are suddenly plucked away

when they are green ; but which of the ways you die, not to die

in the Lord is terrible ; ye may know ye shall die by the fields

ye grow on, while ye live; a believer on Christ, breathes in

Christ, speaks, walks, prays, believes, eateth, drinketh, sickens,

dies in Christ ; Christ is the soil he is planted in, he groweth on

the banks of the paradise of God ; when he falleth, he cannot fall

wrong ; some are trees growing on the banks of the river of fire

and brimstone ; when God hews down the tree, and death fells them,

the tree can fall no otherwise than in hell ; O how sweet to be

in Christ, and to grow as a tree planted on the banks of the river of life, when such die they fall in Christ's lap and in His bosom ; be the death violent or natural ! it is all one whether a strong gale and a rough storm shore the child of God on the new Jerusalem's dry land, or if a small calm blast, even with rowing of oars, bring the passenger to heaven, if once he be in that goodly land.

(From Christ Dying.)

JOHN EARLE

[Born at York about 1601. According to Wood, graduated B.A and

was elected to a fellowship at Merton College, Oxford, in 1619. He was a

resident in the University in 1628, the date of the publication, by Edward

Blount, of his Microcosmography, or A Piece of the World discovered in Essays

and Characters. King Charles II., whose tutor he had been, and whose

fortunes he had followed in exile, conferred upon him in 1662 the Bishopric

of Worcester, whence in 1663 he was promoted to Salisbury. He died at

Oxford in 1665.]

EARLE's epitaph in Merton College Chapel, conformably with the

fact that he lived in an age of academical studies from which we

are but just emerging, based his literary reputation upon his presumably

excellent Latin versions of two standard English books.

But although no reference was allowed on his tomb to the one work

in the vulgar tongue which has secured to him a place among

our men of letters, the inscription suggests precisely enough the

antithetical mixture which distinguished him “as an author,”

while it commended him “as a man.” “Potuit in aulâ vivere, et

mundum spernere: he contrived to live at court, while contemning

the world.” No sentence could better summarise that which

attracts and that which edifies in the character-sketches of this

quick-witted observer and high-minded censor of his times.

It would be rather absurd to treat a slender collection of

“detached leaves” like the Microcosmography (to which in later

editions new detachments were from time to time added) as a

classic of our prose-literature ; but there is no difficulty in accounting

for its prolonged popularity, and good reason for approving

the soundness of the judgment with which it found favour. It

fell in, as is the case with all but possibly a very few successful

books (and I think I might omit the qualification), with a current

of public predilection ; yet its author knew how to preserve, or

preserved unconsciously, the individual note.

These books of Characters—short essays delineating in brief and quasi-aphoristic form particular types of men or women—were an appropriate product of what may (roughly) be called the Jacobean age. On the one hand, the creativeness of dramatic characterisation had exhausted, or was exhausting itself; on the other, the introspection which Puritanism had begun to enforce called for the comparisons without which no examination of self seems to be altogether complete. The literary form suited to this still real, however extenuated, demand was ready to hand. Its inventor Theophrastus had, like Earle, lived in an age marked, to borrow the words of Professor Jebb, by a reaction from creating to analysing ; and the century in which the Microcosmography was written gave birth to scores of imitations of so congenial a model. Earle, who unlike some of these had most certainly read Theophrastus, is differentiated from them all—including the Master—by characteristics of his own. Inasmuch as while the Greek original at once inspired and controlled his method, the Characters which Earle had immediately before him were undoubtedly those of Overbury, it may suffice to compare these two series. The wider variety of observation on the part of the courtier is more than compensated by the greater depth and refinement in the university scholar ; but while Overbury displays on occasion a graphic skill of which Earle's sketches, as it were, offer hardly more than a promise, he cannot be said to be Earle's superior either in pure wit, or I think in the conception of those grave counterfoils so effectively introduced by both authors. What, in the former way, could be better than the turn in Earle's very first Character, A Child: "The older he grows, he is a stair lower from God ; and, like his first father, much worse in his breeches ?" Or the touches in the Character of A Plain Country Fellow, who "never praises God but on good ground"; and who thinks "Noah's flood the greatest plague ever was, not because it drowned the world, but spoiled the grass ?" Or, as a mere matter of quaint novelty of style, the final reference of A Young Raw Preacher to "a chambermaid, with whom we will leave him now in the bonds of wedlock. Next Sunday you shall have him again ?"

The seventy-eight types which in the most enlarged edition of the book make up the World in Small, display less diversity than might perhaps have been expected from so numerous a selection. But the writer, it must be remembered, had, unlike Overbury, not yet begun his travels, and was a resident college fellow

in a University whose praiseworthy efforts to be a world in itself were limited by circumstance even more narrowly in his time than in ours. Accordingly, though his ideal is the Contemplative Man, who "is a scholar in this great university, the world," he excels in the presentation of academical and clerical types, in which, down to the days of Robert Elsmere, there has remained individuality enough to furnish forth excellent tragi-comedy. Such are the Young Raw Preacher and his admirable "opposite," the Grave Divine; and that other pair of contrasts, the Down-right Scholar, who "cannot speak to a dog in his own dialect," and the Mere Young Gentleman of the University, who "of all things, endures not to be mistaken for a scholar." These portraits, together with such pendants as An Old College Butler and A University Dun, are drawn from the life; whereas those taken from town-life, like the Tobacco-seller and Paul's Walk, are comparatively colourless. But the University or scholar's point of view is apparent throughout in the illustrations which spring up ready to the author's use; in him it is not far-fetched to define the Self-conceited Man as one who "prefers Ramus before Aristotle, and Paracelsus before Galen, and whosoever with most paradox is commended, and Lipsius his hopping style, before either Tully or Quintilian"; or to paraphrase a Shopkeeper as "the title-page or index of that well-stuffed book, his shop." But Earle is preserved from pedantry by the liveliness of his wit, while his wit itself has in it a salt nobler than the Attic—the savour of pure and unaffected piety. The vicissitudes of his career united with the characteristics of his intellect to make him an opponent of Puritanism, but not a mocking opponent; and it is noticeable how, in his forcible character of A Profane Man, he describes him as one who "will take upon him with oaths to pelt some tenderer man out of his company, and makes good sport at his conquest over the Puritan fool." He makes no secret of his aversion from extravagances which even as a mere matter of style he must have naturally been inclined to dislike, above all when he sees them exaggerated, as all such things are exaggerated when taken up by women, in a She Precise Hypocrite, one of his most vigorous likenesses. But his sympathies, as the later Characters make it specially evident, are with earnestness of faith, as well as with the clearness of judgment which he misses in A Sceptic in Religion. Again, it is interesting to note how this type of academic half-heartedness rather than double-facedness should have survived

to days when Socinus and Vorstius, as well as "the zeal of Amsterdam," have been superseded by other heresiarchs, and by other short roads to salvation. Like most satirists (though no doubt there are notable instances on the other side) Earle was a conservative to the core ; but not one of the rank and file who, like his Vulgar-Spirited Man, "have no lifting thoughts."

A. W. WARD.

A PRETENDER TO LEARNING

Is one that would make others more fools than himself; for though he know nothing, he would not have the world know so much. He conceits nothing in learning but the opinion, which he seeks to purchase without it, though he might with less labour cure his ignorance, than hide it. He is indeed a kind of scholar-montebank, and his art, our delusion. He is trickt out in all the accoutrements of learning, and at the first encounter none passes better. He is oftener in his study, than at his book, and you cannot pleasure him better, than to deprehend him. Yet he hears you not till the third knock, and then comes out very angry, as interrupted. You find him in his slippers, and a pen in his ear, in which formality he was aslcep. His table is spread wide with some classic folio, which is as constant to it as the carpet, and hath laid open in the same page this half year. His candle is always a longer sitter up than himself, and the boast of his window at midnight. He walks much alone in the posture of meditation, and has a book still before his face in the fields. His pocket is seldom without a Greek Testament, or Hebrew Bible, which he opens only in the church, and that when some stander by looks over. He has his sentences for company, some scatterings of Seneca and Tacitus, which are good upon all occasions. If he read any thing in the morning, it comes up all at dinner: and as long as that lasts, the discourse is his. He is a great plagiary of tavern-wit : and comes to sermons only that he may talk of Austin. His parcels are the mere scrapings from company, yet he complains at parting what time he has lost. He is wondrously capricious to seem a judgment, and listens with a sour attention to what he understands not. He talks much of Scaliger and Causabon and the Jesuits, and prefers some unheard-of Dutch name before them all. He has verses to bring in upon these and these hints, and it shall go hard but he will.

in his opportunity. He is critical in a language he cannot construe,

and speaks seldom under Arminius in divinity. His business

and retirement and caller away is his study, and he protests no

delight to it comparable. He is a great nomenclator of authors,

which he has read in general in the catalogue, and in particular

in the title, and goes seldom so far as the dedication. He never

talks of any thing but learning, and learns all from talking.

Three encounters with the same men pump him, and then he

only puts in, or gravely says nothing. He has taken pains to be

an ass, though not to be a scholar, and is at length discovered

and laught at.

(From Microcosmographie.)

A SCEPTIC IN RELIGION

Is one that hangs in the balance with all sorts of opinions,

whereof not one but stirs him and none sways him. A man

guiltier of credulity than he is taken to be; for it is out of his

belief of every thing that he fully believes nothing. Each

religion scares him from its contrary: none persuades him to

itself. He would be wholly a Christian, but that he is something

of an atheist, and wholly an atheist, but that he is partly a

Christian; and a perfect heretic, but that there are so many to

distract him. He finds reason in all opinions, truth in none:

indeed the least reason perplexes him, and the best will not

satisfy him. He is at most a confused and wild Christian, not

specialised, by any form, but capable of all. He uses the land's

religion, because it is next him, yet he sees not why he may not

take the other, but he chooses this, not as better, but because

there is not a pin to choose. He finds doubts and scruples

better than resolves them, and is always too hard for himself.

His learning is too much for his brain, and his judgment too

little for his learning, and his over-opinion of both spoils all.

Pity it was his mischance of being a scholar: for it does only

distract and irregulate him and the world by him. He hammers

much in general upon our opinions' uncertainty, and the possibility

of erring makes him not venture on what is true. He is troubled

at this naturalness of religion to countries, that Protestantism

should be born so in England and Popery abroad, and that

fortune and the stars should so much share in it. He likes not

this connexion of the Common-weal and divinity, and fears it may be an arch-practice of state. In our differences with Rome he is strangely unfixt, and a new man every day, as his last dis-course-book's meditations transport him. He could like the grey hairs of Popery, did not some dotages there stagger him; he would come to us sooner, but our new name affrights him. He is taken with their miracles but doubts an imposture; he conceives of our doctrine better, but it seems too empty and naked. He cannot drive into his fancy the circumscription of truth to our corner, and is as hardly persuaded to think their old legends true. He approves well of our faith, and more of their works, and is sometimes much affected at the zeal of Amsterdam. His conscience interposes itself betwixt duellers, and whilst it would part both, is by both wounded. He will sometimes propend much to us upon the reading a good writer and at Bellarmine recoils as far back again; and the fathers jostle him from one side to another. Now Socinus and Vorstius afresh torture him, and he agrees with none worse than himself. He puts his foot into heresies tenderly, as a cat in the water, and pulls it out again, and still something unanswered delays him, yet he bears away some parcel of each, and you may sooner pick all religions out of him than one. He cannot think so many wise men should be in error, nor so many honest men out of the way, and his wonder is doubled, when he sees these oppose one another. He hates authority as the tyrant of reason, and you cannot anger him worse than with a Father's dixit, and yet that many are not persuaded with reason, shall authorise his doubt. In sum, his whole life is a question, and his salvation a greater, which death only concludes, and then he is resolved.

(From the Same.)

A VULGAR-SPIRITED MAN

Is one of the herd of the world. One that follows merely the common cry, and makes it louder by one. A man that loves none but who are publicly affected, and he will not be wiser than the rest of the town. That never owns a friend after an ill name, or some general imputation though he knows it most unworthy. That opposes to reason, Thus men say, and Thus most do, and

Thus the world goes ; and thinks this enough to poise the other.

That worships men in place, and those only, and thinks all a

great man speaks oracles. Much taken with my lord's jest, and

repeats you it all to a syllable. One that justifies nothing out of

fashion, nor any opinion out of the applauded way. That thinks

certainly all Spaniards and Jesuits very villains, and is still

cursing the Pope and Spinola. One that thinks the gravest

cassock the best scholar ; and the best clothes the finest man.

That is taken only with broad and obscene wit, and hisses any

thing too deep for him. That cries Chaucer for his money above

all our English poets, because the voice has gone so, and he has

read none. That is much ravisht with such a noble man's courtesy,

and would venture his life for him, because he put off his hat.

One that is foremost still to kiss the King's hand, and cries 'God

bless his Majesty' loudest. That rails on all men condemned

and out of favour, and the first that says, Away with the traitors :

yet struck with much ruth at executions, and for pity to see a

man die, could kill the hangman. That comes to London to see

it, and the pretty things in it, and the chief cause of his journey

the bears : that measures the happiness of the kingdom by the

cheapness of corn ; and conceives no harm of state, but ill trading.

Within this compass, too, come those that are too much wedged

into the world, and have no lifting thoughts above those things

that call to thrive, to do well, and preferment only the grace of

God. That aim all studies at this mark, and show you poor

scholars as an example to take heed by. That think the prison

and want, a judgment for some sin, and never like well here-

after of a jail-bird. That know no other content but wealth,

bravery, and the town-pleasures ; that think all else but idle

speculation, and the philosophers mad-men : in short, men that

are carried away with all outwardnesses, shows, appearances, the

stream, the people ; for there is no man of worth but has a piece

of singularity, and scorns something.

(From the Same.)

OWEN FELLTHAM

[Owen Felltham was born early in the seventeenth century. Very little is known of his history, even the dates of his birth and death are uncertain. He was the son of one Thomas Felltham of Suffolk, gent., and it is inferred was attached to the household of the Earl of Thomond. He appears to have been happily married. He seems to have had a liberal education, and to have been possessed of means. He is supposed to have died about 1677.]

The most celebrated of the writings of Owen Felltham is his little volume of Resolves, divine, moral, and political. In addition to this he wrote a Brief character of the Low Countries under the States, some lay sermons or Practical Reflections on certain Scripture texts ; poems, and letters.

Part of the Resolves was written in his nineteenth year. It is uncertain when the little book first made its appearance ; the earliest edition we possess is the second, published in 1628, and it is supposed that the first had appeared some two years previously.

Felltham writes pleasantly and well. Each essay or resolve is well turned, and in itself a work of art. Like most of his learned contemporaries he adorns his pages with classical allusions and quotations, but not oppressively so. He was censured for not giving his references. He defended himself against this charge somewhat curiously, saying that he did not profess to be a scholar, and for a gentleman he held such accuracy "a little pedantical."

His metaphors and analogies are for the most part felicitous. He does not labour after effect, but writes with the easy grace of a refined, but not profound, student of literature.

The Resolves may be best described as satires. They are temperate, judicial, wise. There is no ardent enthusiasm, but considerable earnestness and good sense in Felltham's writings.

His style is easy without being colloquial ; dignified without being stilted. It is that of an amiable, pious, sensible man of the

world, who aimed at as much virtue as was conveniently practicable; and who, without affecting to be a saint, patiently en-

deavoured not to be too much of a sinner.

His sentences are never lengthy nor involved, and always per-

fectly intelligible. There is no loftiness of diction, neither is there any attractive homeliness. Sustained, harmonious, dignified, he

inspires our respect, if he does not win our love.

A shrewd and graceful humour, seldom wandering into coarse-

ness, distinguishes his writings, notably his Brief Character of the Low Countries.

Ignorant as we are of his whole life, ignorant even of the dates of his entering and leaving the world, we yet feel as we close this

book of his Resolves, written primarily for his own guidance, and modestly offered to the world, on the chance of possibly helping

others, that we know and like the man with his quiet, sensible spirit, and earnest gentlemanlike utterance.

A. I. FITZROY.

A FRIEND AND ENEMY, WHEN MOST DANGEROUS

I will take heed both of a speedy friend and a slow enemy.

Love is never lasting which flames before it burns; and hate,

like wetted coals, throws a fiercer heat when fire gets the

mastery. As quick wits have seldom sound judgments which

should make them continue: so friendship kindled suddenly is

rarely found to consist with the durability of affection. Enduring

love is ever built on virtue, which no man can see in another at

once. He that fixes upon her shall find a beauty which will

every day take him with some new grace or other. I like that

love which, by a soft ascention, by degrees possesses itself of the

soul. As for an enemy who is long a making, he is much the

worse for being ill no sooner. He hates not without cause who

is unwilling to hate at all.

(From Resolves, Divine, Moral, and Political.)

OF PREACHING

The defect of preaching has made the pulpit slighted; I mean

the much bad oratory we find come from it. It is a wonder to

me how men can preach so little, and so long: so long a time,

and so little matter; as if they thought to please by the inculca-

tion of their vain tautologies. I see no reason why so high a

princess as divinity is should be presented to the people in the

sordid rags of the tongue; nor that he who speaks from the

Father of Languages should deliver his embassage in an ill one.

A man can never speak too well while he speaks not obscurely.

Long and diffusive sentences are both tedious to the ear and

difficult to retain. A sentence well couched takes both the senses

and the understanding. I love not those cart-rope speeches.

which are longer than the memory of man can fathom. I see not but that divinity, put into apt significants, might ravish as well as poetry. They are sermons but of baser metal, which lead the eyes to slumber. He answered well that, after often asking,

said still, that action was the chief part of an orator. Surely that oration is most powerful where the tongue is eloquent, and speaks in a native decency, even in every limb. A good orator should pierce the ear, allure the eye, and invade the mind of his hearer.

And this is Seneca's opinion : fit words are better than fine ones : I like not those which are injudiciously employed ; but such as are expressively pertinent, which lead the mind to something beside the naked term. And he that speaks thus must not look

to speak thus every day. A kembed oration will cost both labour and the rubbing of the brain. And kembed I wish it, not frizzled nor curled. Divinity should not be wanton. Harmless jests I like well ; but they are fitter for the tavern than the majesty of

the temple. Christ taught the people with authority. Gravity becomes the pulpit. I admire the valour of some men who, before their studies, dare ascend the pulpit ; and do there take more pains than they have done in their library. But having

done this, I wonder not that they there spend sometimes three hours, only to weary the people into sleep. And this makes some such fugitive divines that, like cowards, they run away from their text. Words are not all, nor is matter all, nor gesture ; yet, to-

gether they are. It is very moving in an orator when the soul seems to speak as well as the tongue. St. Augustin says, Tully was admired more for his tongue than his mind ; Aristotle more for his mind than his tongue : but Plato for both. And surely

nothing is more necessary in an oration, than a judgment able well to conceive and utter. I know God hath chosen by weak things to confound the wise : yet I see not, but, in all times, attention has been paid to language. And even the Scriptures

(though not the Hebrew) I believe are penned in a tongue of deep expression, wherein almost every word has a metaphorical sense, which illustrates by some allusion. How political is Moses in his Pentateuch ! How philosophical Job ! How massy and

sententious is Solomon in his proverbs ! how grave and solemn in his Ecclesiastes ; that in the world, there is not such another dissection of the world as it ! How were the Jews astonished at Christ's doctrine ! How eloquent a pleader is Paul at the bar ;

in disputation how subtle ! And he who reads the Fathers shall

find them as if written with a fine pen. . . . I wish no man to be

too dark and full of shadow. There is a way to be pleasingly

plain; and some have found it. Mercury himself may move his

tongue in vain if he has none to hear him but a non-intelligent.

They that speak to children assume a pretty lisping. Birds are

caught by the counterfeit of their own shrill notes. There is a

magic in the tongue which can charm even the rude and untaught.

Eloquence is a bridle, wherewith a wise man rides the monster of

the world, the people. The affections of the hearer depend upon

the tongue of the speaker.

Flet, si flere jubes; gaudet, gaudere coactus :

Et te dante, capit Judcx quum non habet iram.—LUCAN.

Thou may'st give smiles, or tears which joys do blot,

Or wrath to Judges, which themselves have not.

I grieve that any thing so excellent as divinity should fall into

a sluttish handling. Surely, though other obstructions do eclipse

her, yet this is a principal one. I never yet knew a good tongue

that wanted ears to hear it. I will honour her in her plain trim;

but I would desire her in her graceful jewels; not that they give

addition to her goodness, but that she is thereby rendered more

persuasive in working on the soul she meets with. When I meet

with worth which I cannot overlove, I can well endure that art

which is a means to heighten liking.

(From the Same.)

DESCRIPTION OF A DUTCH HOUSE

WHEN you are entered the house the first thing you encounter is

a looking-glass. No question but a true emblem of politic hospi-

tality; for though it reflects yourself in your own figure, 'tis yet

no longer than while you are there before it. When you are gone

once, it flatters the next comer, without the least remembrance

that you ere were there.

The next are the vessels of the house marshalled about the

room like watchmen. All as neat as if you were in a citizens'

wives' cabinet: for unless it be themselves, they let none of God's

creatures lose anything of their native beauty.

Their houses, especially in their cities, are the best eye beauties

VOL. II

of their country. For cost and sight they far exceed our English,

but they want their magnificence. Their lining is yet more rich

than their outside ; not in hangings, but in pictures, which even

the poorest are there furnisht with. Not a cobbler but has his

toys for ornament. Were the knacks of all their houses set

together, there would not be such another Bartholomew Fair in

Europe.

Whatsoever their estates be, their house must be fair. There-

fore from Amsterdam they have banished sea-coal, lest it soil

their buildings, of which the statelier sort are sometimes senten-

tious, and in the front carry some conceit of the owner. As to

give you a taste in these :

Christus Adjutor Meus ;

Hoc abdicato Perenne Quæro ;

Hic Medio tutius Itur.

Every door seems studded with diamonds. The nails and

hinges hold a constant brightness, as if rust there were not a

quality incident to iron. Their houses they keep cleaner than

their bodies ; their bodies than their souls. Go to one you shall

find the andirons shut up in net-work. At a second, the warming-

pan muffled in Italian cut-work. At a third the sconce clad in

cambric.

(From A Brief Character of the Two Countries.)

SIR KENELM DIGBY

[Kenelm Digby was the son of Sir Everard Digby, executed for his participation in the Gunpowder Plot. He was born in 1603, at Gayhurst, Bucks, an estate which was preserved to him by the care of his mother. For a time he seems to have been educated as a Protestant under the charge of Laud, then Dean of Gloucester ; but although there are doubts as to the date of his adherence to the Roman Catholic Church, he certainly became an avowed Roman Catholic before 1636. He studied first at Gloucester Hall (afterwards Worcester College) in the University of Oxford, and next in the University of Paris, and spent a large part of his early manhood abroad. In 1623, he received the honour of knighthood, and in 1624 was privately married to Venetia Stanley, descended from the Earls of Derby and the house of Percy—a lady of great beauty and talents, with whose reputation, however, scandal had been busy. In 1627, he started, under royal licence, as head of a privateering expedition, in which he defeated a Venetian and French fleet. On the outbreak of the disputes between the Crown and the Parliament, he fell under the suspicion of the Parliamentary party and was banished ; and it was while in France, under the protection of Henrietta Maria and her mother, that he published his chief work, On the Nature of Bodies, and the Nature of Man's Soul. The sincerity of his political principles is rendered doubtful by his subsequent friendly relations with Cromwell ; but strangely enough, he seems never to have broken off his connection with the Royalist party, and was well received at Court after the Restoration. He took an interest in the establishment of the Royal Society in 1663, and died in London in 1665 ]

Amongst the many strange personalities of the 17th century, there are few whose character it is more difficult to gauge than that of Kenelm Digby. He played his part as courtier, man of fashion, romancer, critic, soldier, virtuoso, and philosopher ; and although he was distinguished in each, there was no sphere in which some suspicion of charlatanism did not attach to him. It is indeed difficult to avoid the conclusion that an element of madness entered into his composition, or at least that his versatility was united to an abnormal eccentricity, which, if it partly relieves him of the worst charges, yet explains how small his influence was in any single sphere of activity. His vanity was

prodigious, and is naturally most conspicuous where his writings

(as is frequently the case) relate to his own actions.

His Private Memoirs, first printed from his MS. in 1827,

give us an account of his life down to 1628 ; and the larger part

is occupied with a singular history of his early love and marriage

with Venetia Stanley. The story is told as a romance under assumed

names, and it is impossible to tell what part of it is true and what

part pure romancing. In style it is inflated and turgid, and ex-

hibits all the absurd magiloquence of diction characteristic of the

romances of the day, with a strange perversity in its moralisings

which is peculiar to Digby himself. Besides this we have some

shorter narratives ; one entitled Sir Kenelm Digby's Honour

Maintained, in which his prowess in resenting an insult to his king

by single combat is set forth ; and another, the journal of his

privateering expedition, which is simple and direct narrative. In

1643, he printed his Observations on Religio Medici, written in

feverish haste, and with something of captious criticism of Browne's

work ; in 1644, his Observations on an obscure passage in

Spenser's Fairie Queene ; and in the same year his chief philo-

sophical work, On the Nature of Bodies, and the Nature of Man's

Soul.

Some of his most marked peculiarities are best exhibited by

the contrast between Browne and himself, which appears in his

Observations on Religio Medici. In Browne's mysticism the

imagination is always stronger than the ingenuity, and the breadth

of a generous and liberal sympathy is more conspicuous than any

definiteness of formal belief. But Digby is always straining after

a system ; and he evidently wrote the criticism under the influence

of the philosophical theory which he sets forth more elaborately

in the longer treatise on the Nature of Bodies and the Natur of

Man's Soul. What attracts us most in Browne is his keen

perception of the bearing of religious belief upon the faculties of

man ; he never obtrudes any dogmatism, but he steers his way

through the labyrinth of creeds, with a calm and steady equipoise

which never loses its courteous dignity. Digby, with far less of

philosophic calm, is much more of the schoolman ; without

attacking any religious dogma, he yet pursues, with greater

pertinacity, a sort of rationalistic system. He will not subscribe

to Browne's gentle contempt for the impotence of human reason,

but would fain base religion upon the foundations of reason. The

germ of freethinking was there ; and it is difficult to avoid the

belief that Swift, whose writings are full of reminiscences both of Browne and of Digby, found in Digby's sprightly philosophising, a type of the mental complacency against which he directed his satire.

His more elaborate philosophical work begins by tracing the operations of physical nature, and through them, explains the action of instinct in animals. He distinguishes sharply between these instincts (the result, as he maintains, solely of physical causes), and the operations of the human intellect, even when these approach most nearly to the semblance of the instincts in animals. From this distinction he argues that there must be some basis for these operations which is not physical ; that this basis is the sole foundation for a belief in the existence of the soul ; and enunciates in a somewhat different form, the thesis Cogito ergo sum. And because this basis is not physical and is not therefore subject to physical laws, it must be immortal. The theory is open to assault at many points ; but it is worked out with much care and ingenuity ; and by the very care and accuracy of his argument, Digby's style becomes clear, exact, and forcible. He has not the boldness or the mastery of language which invents new expressions or clothes new thoughts in words. But he writes with the polished ease and grace which in his carriage and his manner so vividly impressed all his contemporaries, even when they were compelled to admit his total want of veracity. He has the confidence, and, at the same time, the breadth of view, acquired by converse with every phase of life. His prose has not the quaint turns, and the sympathetic subtlety of Browne's ; but as the extracts given below will show, he can rise occasionally to very lofty heights of dignity and eloquence. With all this, however, there is a pervading impression of artificiality, as of one whose character was above all things theatrical ; and of superficial confidence, as of one to whom philosophical lucubrations were only a phase of eccentric and ill-balanced restlessness. The best description of Digby is that given by a master of word-portraiture—Clarendon.

" Sir Kenelm Digby was a person very eminent and notorious throughout the whole course of his life, from his cradle to his grave ; of an ancient family and noble extraction, and inherited a fair and plentiful fortune notwithstanding the attainder of his father. He was a man of a very extraordinary person and presence, which drew the eyes of all men upon him, which were

more fixed by a wonderful graceful behaviour, a flowing courtesy and civility, and such a volubility of language, as surprised and delighted ; and though in another man it might have appeared to have somewhat of affectation, it was marvellous graceful in him, and seemed natural to his size and mould of person, to the gravity of his motion, and the tune of his voice and delivery. He had a fair reputation in arms, of which he gave an early testimony in his youth in some encounters in Spain and Italy, and afterwards in an action in the Mediterranean Sea, where he had the command of a squadron of ships of war, set out at his own charge under the king's commission. . . . In a word, he had all the advantages that nature and art, and an excellent education could give him ; which, with a great confidence and presentness of mind, buoyed him up against all those prejudices and disadvantages (as the attainder and execution of his father for a crime of the highest nature ; his own marriage with a lady, though of an extraordinary beauty, of as extraordinary a fame ; his changing and re-changing his religion ; and some personal vices and licences in his life) which would have suppressed and sunk any other man, but never clouded or eclipsed him from appearing in the best places, in the best company, and with the best estimation and satisfaction.

To this portrait we may add the following sentence of Anthony Wood :--

" Had (Sir Kenelm Digby) been dropt out of the clouds in any part of the world he would have made himself respected ; but the Jesuits who cared not for him, spoke spitefully, and said, " 'Twas true, but he must not have stayed above six weeks.' "

H. CRAIK.

AN EXTRACT FROM A SHIP'S LOG

I GAVE order for the speedy dispatch of the polacra, and with half of my ships went to Delphos, which is a very good port, and there I spent my time taking in some marble stones and statues till the Vice-Admiral and polacra and sattia came to me, which was the 3rd of September. Then the wind being contrary I unladed the sattia, and took the rest of her goods (which the Vice-Admiral and Hopewell had left) into my ship.

The reasons that moved me to come to Micono were these. Mr. Taverner said the polacra was so leaky and in evil plight that he would not venture to sail in her to Patras, and to stay at Milo to careen and fit her I saw was very inconvenient, for it was a place that administered means of such debauchedness that I found by experience I could have no command of my men there, and the wind came fair to carry us to Micono in a day, and it was too soon by three weeks to come into our port to make provisions, for it was so hot that all men said in a month yet meat could not take salt, and wine is extremely cheap at Micono, so that I intended to make all my provisions there of that, but was frustrated, for they had filled up all their old cask and store with new wines which were naught for beverage, and in the little channel between Tino and Micono did pass all those vessels that went for Constantinople, Scio, or Smyrna, where I' heard there were six Frenchmen ready to come out, and more daily expected to come thither. But being at Micono I found that my men likewise haunted that shore, which yet was not comparably so bad as Milo, and were uneasy to be kept aboard ; so that I went with most of my ships to Delphos, a desert island, where staying till the rest were ready, because idleness should not fix their minds upon any untoward fancies (as is usual among seamen), and together to avail myself of the convenience of carrying away some antiquities there, I busied them in rolling of stones to the seaside, which

they did with such eagerness as though it had been the earnestest business that they came out for, and they mastered prodigious massy weights ; but one stone, the greatest and fairest of all, containing four statues, they gave over after they had been, three hundred men, a whole day about it, while the dispatching some business with some Venetians come from Tino detained me aboard. But the next day I contrived a way with masts of ships and another ship to ride over against it, that brought it down with much ease and speed. In the little Delphos there are brave marble stones heaped up in the great ruins of Apollo's temple, and within the circuit of it is a huge statue, but broken in two pieces about the waist, which the Greeks told me was Apollo's. It weighth at least thirty tons, and time hath worn out much of the softnesses and gentlenesses of the work, yet all the proportions remain perfect and in gross : the yieldings of the flesh and the musculous parts are visible, so that it is still a brave noble piece, and hath by divers been attempted to be carried away, but they have all failed in it.

(From Journal of a Voyage into the Mediterranean.)

THE MAXIMS OF SELF-CONTENTMENT

THERE is no man certainly that seeth so far as I do into these contentments and blessings, but will desire them as vehemently as I do ; but there may be this difference between us, that they may want courage and resolution to possess and defend them ; and I deem it a greater weakness to disguise one's passions than to entertain them. Other men's opinions shall never drive me from maintaining the rules that I have prescribed to myself ; then since this so mainly importeth my happiness I will not fail to justify myself to the world for giving way to my affections ; and then, although I may not gain the opinion of wisdom suitable to those times, yet I hope I shall have the ancients my friends, in that I seek to get a habitute that breedeth full pleasure and interior delight, and banish far from my consideration those things that are without me, to the end that not being afraid of the censures of the world, I may not drown my life in perpetual disquiet. But if what I have said to that effect, do not relish to other men's

fantasies ; and that it be like too solid meat for weak stomachs

and tender teeth, as the vulgar's are, I will proceed with them in

a more gentle, or rather submissive way ; if they will not absolve

me, let them pardon me ; let my friends be so indulgent to me as

to pass by this one action, and I will not fail their hopes or their

desires in any thing else. Although I cannot persuade myself

that I am in an error in this, yet since others believe it, it will

make me strive to behave myself so in all things else, that I may

rectify myself in their good opinion, and, to that effect, strain my-

self in virtuous actions beyond what otherwise I should have done.

If it be a fault in me, yet it would be a greater injustice in them to

condemn all that may be good besides, for so small a mixture of

the contrary ; what discreet man ever threw away a fair and rich

garment for having a small spot in some one corner of it ! It

importeth no man but himself ; then it is reason that no man but

myself should trouble himself about it ; yet if they will still search

into me, let them remember, that in the choice of friends those are

to be esteemed good that are the least ill, since none are positively

good ; and if all men have something of evil, let them examine

the nature and weight of what evil is inherent to every one, and

make their choice accordingly. And if herein I strive not to

better myself, let them conceive the cause proceedeth as much out

of my design as out of my weakness, for I have learned, and from

an author of unquestionable authority, that even the mending of a

state is not worth the disordering and troubling it. And if I yield

more to the tempest that carryeth me away, than some may like

of, let them consider that a ship tossed in a violent storm maketh

fairest weather before the wind ; wherefore I judge it folly for any

man to force and strain his nature, to raise a civil war within

himself. Besides, I care not for mending myself by halves :

with me if anything be awry, let all that hangeth upon that string

be so too. If my affection be a fault, I must confess I cannot

help it, for herein we are under the conduct of the stars, and then

I will never go about to prescribe its limits ; and sure it is better

to have some evil increased, than all one's good troubled. But

withal I will say this in my own behalf, that I think who hath

given testimony of wisdom in other things, shall never be accounted

a fool for his affections when he can give himself a good account

of them ; and they that live in the memory of after ages, shall not

be judged by their loves, but by their other actions. Let them in

me look upon those, and cover this, as they did in ancient times

that sold a good horse ; they covered those parts of him that were not essential to be observed in judging of his goodness, lest they might carry away the buyer's eye from marking the principal limbs, by the which they might make a judgment of the rest. Howsoever, since this may be liable to dispute, whether I have done well or ill, let men suspend their sentences till the event give the verdict one way ; let them follow that wise man's advice that would have none judge of another's happiness till after his death ; and in this, censure me by the tenor of my future life, wherein I dare boldly promise to myself that, whensoever I shall avow her for such, she will prove an exact pattern of a virtuous wife, and I of a happy man ; and this not through any prophetic revelation or credulous fantasy, but upon infallible grounds and the certain knowledge of her nature, which is such that it will be my fault if she prove not as I would have her ; and I am confident that her life will belie any rumour that may have been spread abroad to her disadvantage by malicious persons, and believed by others that take up their opinions upon trust.

To end then this long, and I fear tedious discourse of mine, let me put you in mind, how some ancient and much esteemed philosophers were of opinion that a man of vigorous spirits and of a clear understanding might not only love, but without blame use the liberty of his own election and inclinations, and ought to oppose the original rules of nature against vulgar laws and customs ; and that limited and artificial ordinances are only for weak minds, who are not able to judge of things truly as they are by the dim light of their own feeble nature. And while it remaineth in controversy what is best for a man to do, let him in the mean time at least do what pleaseth him most : and for my part, I can never deem those humours very vain that are very pleasing, since content is the true seasoning of all other blessings, and that without it they are all nothing ; nor guide my actions by other men's censures, which hurt not at all when they are neglected or patiently endured, nor be afflicted when they condemn me ; and thus I shall be free from the servitude that most men live in, who are more troubled by the opinions of evils than by their real essence ; and then the world shall see that my happiness and content is not proportioned to the estimation that they make of it, which will soon be forgotten and vanish away ; but to what I truly enjoy and feel in myself, which will remain in me for ever. And to express fully the exact character of my mind in this

particular, give me leave to make use of the sententious poet's

words, though applied to my purpose somewhat differing from his

sense, where he saith :

Prætulerim delirus inersque videri

Dum mea delectent mala me, vel denique fallant,

Quam sapere et ringi. - HORAT.

And then I will entreat them to think of me as I do of others ;

which is, that no man of a competent understanding and judg-

ment is to be lamented or pitied for finding any means, whatso-

ever it be, to please and satisfy himself.

(From Private Memoirs.)

THE SOUL'S EXCELLENCE

AND now I hope I may confidently say I have been as good as

my word : and I doubt not but my reader will find it so, if he

spend but half as much time in perusing these two treatises as

the composing of them hath cost me. They are too nice (and

indeed unreasonable) who expect to attain without pains unto

that which hath cost others years of toil. Let them remember the

words of holy Job, that wisdom is not found in the land of those

who live at their ease. Let them cast their eyes on every side

round about them, and then tell me, if they meet with any

employment that may be compared to the attaining unto these,

and such like principles ; whereby a man is enabled to govern him-

self understandingly and knowingly, towards the happiness both

of the next life and of this ; and to comprehend the wise man's

theme ; what is good for a man in the days of his vanity, whiles

he playeth the stranger under the sun. Let us fear God's judg-

ments. Let us carefully pursue the hidden bounties He hath

treasured up for us. Let us thank Him for the knowledge He

hath given us : and admire the excellency of Christian religion ;

which so plainly teaches us that unto which it is so extreme hard

to arrive by natural means. Let us bless Him that we are born

unto it. And let us sing to Him ; That it is He, who preached

His doctrine to Jacob, and giveth His laws to Israel. He hath not

done the like to all nations ; nor hath He manifested His secret

truths unto them.

But before I cut off this thread, which hath cost me so much pains to spin out to this length, I must crave my reader's leave to make some use of it for my own behoof. Hitherto my discourse hath been directed to him, now I shall entreat his patience that I may reflect it in a word or two upon myself. And as I am sure I have profited myself not a little by talking all this while to him, that obliging me to polish my conceptions with more care, and to range them into better order, than while they were but rude meditations within my own breast, so I hope that a little conversation with myself upon this important subject (which is to be studied for use and practice, not for speculative science) may prove advantageous unto him, if his warmed thoughts have tuned his soul to such a key, as I am sure these considerations have wound up mine unto.

To thee then, my soul, I now address my speech. For since by long debate, and toilsome rowing against the impetuous tides of ignorance and false apprehensions which overflow thy banks and hurry thee headlong down the stream, whilst thou art imprisoned in thy clayey mansion, we have with much ado arrived at some little atom of thy vast greatness; and with the hard and tough blows of strict and wary reasoning we have stricken out some few sparks of that glorious light which environeth and swelleth thee, or, rather, which is thee: it is high time I should retire myself out of the turbulent and slippery field of eager strife and litigious disputation, to make my accounts with thee, where no outward noise may distract us, nor any way intermeddle between us, excepting only that eternal verity, which by thee shineth upon my faint and gloomy eyes, and in which I see whatsoever doth or can content thee in me. I have discovered that thou (my soul) wilt survive me: and so survive me as thou wilt also survive the mortality and changes which belong to me, and which are but accidentiary to thee, merely because thou art in me.

Then shall the vicissitude of time, and the inequality of dispositions in thee be turned into the constancy of immortality: and into the evenness of one being, never to end, and never to receive a change, or succession to better or worse.

When my eye of contemplation hath been fixed upon this bright sun as long as it is able to endure the radiant beams of it; whose redundant light veileth the looker on with a dark mist; let me turn it for a little space upon the straight passage and narrow gullet through which thou strivest (my soul) with faint

and weary steps during thy hazardous voyage upon the earth to make thyself away; and let me examine what comparison there is between thy two conditions, the present one wherein thou now findest thyself immersed in flesh and blood, and the future state that will betide thee, when thou shalt be melted out of this gross ore, and refined from this mean alloy.

Let my term of life be of a thousand long years, longer than ever happened to our aged forefathers, who stored the earth with their numerous progeny, by outliving their skill to number the diffused multitudes that swarmed from their loins; let me, during this long space, be sole emperor and absolute lord of all the huge globe of land and water encompassed with Adam's offspring; let all my subjects be prostrate at my feet, with obedience and awe, distilling their activest thoughts in studying night and day to invent new pleasures and delights for me;

let nature conspire with them to give me a constant and vigorous health, a perpetual spring of youth, that may to the full relish whatsoever good all they can fancy; let gravest prelates, and greatest princes, serve instead of flatterers to heighten my joys, and yet those joys be raised above their power of flattery; let the wise men of this vast family (whose sentiments are maxims and oracles, to govern the world's beliefs and actions) esteem, reverence, and adore me in the secretest and the most recluse withdrawings of their hearts;

let all the wealth which to this very day hath ever been torn out of the bowels of the earth, and all the treasures which the sea hideth from the view of greedy men, well round about me, whilst all the world besides lyeth gaping to receive the crumbs that fall neglected by me from my full loaden table;

let my imagination be as vast as the unfathomed universe, and let my felicity be as accomplished as my imagination can reach unto, so that wallowing in pleasure I be not able to think how to increase it, or what to wish for more than that which I possess and enjoy.

Thus when my thoughts are at a stand, and can raise my present happiness no higher; let me call to mind how this long lease of pleasant days will in time come to an end: this bottom of a thousand joyful years will at length be unwound, and nothing remain of it; and then (my soul) thy infinitely longer lived immortality will succeed; thy never-ending date will begin a new account, impossible to be summed up, and beyond all proportion infinitely exceeding the happiness we have rudely

aimed to express, so that no comparison can be admitted between them. For suppose first that such it were, as the least and shortest of those manifold joys, which swell it to that height we have fancied, were equal to all the contentment thou shalt receive in a whole million of years, yet millions of years may be so often multiplied, as at length the slender and limited contentments supposed in them may equalise and outgo the whole heap of overflowing bliss, raised so high in the large extent of these thousand happy years, which when they are cast into a total sum ; and that I compare it with the immeasurable eternity which only measureth thee ; then I see that all this huge product of algebraical multiplication appeareth as nothing, in respect of the remaining, and never-ending survivance, and is less than the least point in regard of the immense universe. But then, if it be true (as it is most true) that thy least spark and moment of real happiness in that blessed eternity thou hopest for is infinitely greater and nobler than the whole mass of fancied joys of my thousand years' life here on earth, how infinitely will the value of thy duration exceed all proportion, in regard of the felicity I had imagined myself? And seeing there is no proportion between them, let me sadly reflect upon my own present condition, let me examine what it is, I so busily and anxiously employ my thoughts and precious time upon ; let me consider my own courses, and whither they lead me ; let me take a survey of the lives and actions of the greatest part of the world, which make so loud a noise about my ears,—and then may I justly sigh out from the bottom of my anguished heart, to what purpose have I hitherto lived ? to what purpose are all these millions of toilsome ants, that live and labour about me ? To what purpose were Caesars and Alexanders? To what Aristotles and Archimedes? How miserably foolish are those conquering tyrants, that divide the world with their lawless swords ? What senseless idiots those acute philosophers, who tear men's wits in pieces by their different ways, and subtle logic ! striving to show men beatitudes in this world, and seeking for that, which if they had found, were but nothing of a nothing in respect of true beatitude ! He only is truly wise, who, neglecting all that flesh and blood desireth, endeavourth to purchase at any rate this felicity which thy survivance promiseth ; the least degree of which so far surmounteth all the heaps which the giants of the earth are able to raise by throwing hills upon hills, and striving in vain to

scale and reach those eternities which reside above the skies.

Alas, how fondly doth mankind suffer itself to be deluded ! How

true it is that the only thing necessary proveth the only thing

that is neglected ! Look up, my soul, and fix thine eye upon

that truth, which eternal light maketh so clear unto thee, shining

upon thy face with so great evidence, as defyeth the noontide

sun in its greatest brightness. And this it is, that every action

of thine, be it never so slight, is mainly mischievous ; or be it

never so bedecked with those specious considerations which the

wise men of the world judge important, is foolish, absurd, and

unworthy of a man, and unworthy of one that understandeth,

and acknowledgeth thy dignity, if in it there be any speck, or

if through it there appear any spark of those mean and false

motives which with a false bias draw any way aside from attain-

ing that happiness we expect in thee. That happiness ought

to be the end and mark we level at ; that the rule and model

of all our actions ; that the measure of every circumstance, of

every atom, of whatsoever we bestow so precious a thing upon,

as the employment of thee is.

(Fiom Two Treatises of the Nature of Bodies and the Nature

of Man's Soul.)

SIR THOMAS URQUHART

[Sir Thomas Urquhart (or as he spelt it himself " Urchard ") is supposed to have been born about the year 1605. His family, the Urquharts of Cromarty, was an exceedingly ancient one, and he himself traced a complete genealogy to Adam ; but, as one of his editors observes with admirable moderation, " some of the entries are undoubtedly fictitious." His mother was Christiana, daughter of Lord Elphinstone, and she figures last in the list which Eve heads ; nor is it improbable that Urquhart had her name partly in mind when he signed as he sometimes did " C P." (Christianus Presbyteromastix). Little is known of his youth except that he had ample means and travelled a good deal. When the troubles approached he, a strong cavalier, took part in the demonstration called the " Trot of Turriff " (1639), and was knighted by the King in 1641. Thenceforward he had difficulties with creditors and covenants, was proclaimed a traitor at the Cross of Edinburgh, fought at Worcester and elsewhere, survived till the Restoration, and is said to have died of excessive laughter and joy at hearing thereof. He is best known to the present generation by his partial translation of Rabelais, published in 1653, where the extraordinary style which he had fostered and practised earlier in his own work harmonises so well with the subject as almost to create a second original. His own compositions are of the wildest eccentricity, but possess considerable interest. They begin with a mathematical work called Trissotetras, a title which is but a mild specimen of the singular Greek compounds which Urquhart borrowed or, much more often, invented for the titles, sub-titles, and details of all his books. Others are Pantochronocanon or the Promptuary of Time ; Ekskubalauron, a treatise nominally on a jewel picked out of the dirt at Worcester ; Logopandecteision, a scheme of an universal language. All are a strange medley of learning, whimsicality, family pride, and egotistical prattle, couched in a style which is something like Euphuism crossed and dashed with the most liberal borrowings from classical and modern tongues alike, especially French. They are unluckily inaccessible with great difficulty, the only modern and complete edition being the handsome one privately printed for the Maitland Club in 1834.]

Sir Thomas Urquhart is one of those personages—proportionally rather numerous during the seventeenth century, and certainly more numerous then than at any other time—who seem to be characters of fiction strayed into the world of fact. That Sir Walter Scott, who must have known all about him, did not put

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him into one of his books is chiefly to be taken as a proof of Scott's shrewd judgment, for Urquhart was complete already as presented by himself. Indeed Sir Walter may be said to have decomposed him : and flashes of Urquhart appear in Dugald Dalgetty, in the Baron of Bradwardine, in King James, and elsewhere. That is to say, Sir Thomas was an exaggeratedly typical example of a certain class of Scottish gentleman of his time—learned to pedantry, original to the verge of madness, proud as a peacock, brave and faithful as steel. The extracts which follow will show him better than any description in short space can do, though not so well, perhaps, as a very large number of scraps sifted and arranged from his extraordinary works. His most famous, and perhaps his best single passage is his long account of the Admirable Crichton, who seems to represent his own ideal—an account on which most subsequent writers who have depicted that half-mythical personage have drawn. But it is much too long for insertion here as a whole, and would be injured by curtailment. The shorter sketch of Dr. Seaton here given, and the introduction to one of the books of Logopandecteision will probably suffice to exhibit, as well as can be done, the strange jumble of his matter, the lawless freedom of his vocabulary, and the way in which any subject, even the most remote, is brought somehow or other round to the interests and fortunes of the Urquhart family in general, and to those of “C. P.” in particular. It may be suspected that Urquhart, like some others whose naturally fantastic brains were superheated by those troublous times, was not entirely sane. But his learning, or at least his reading, was thoroughly genuine : the Trissotetras is not unworthy of a countryman and contemporary of Napier, and the Logo-pandecteision in the midst of its exuberant oddities displays acuteness enough. In language Urquhart is merely an extreme example of the deliberately extravagant quaintness which characterised his time, but it must be admitted that he is one of the most extreme, and that it would be nearly impossible to go beyond him. How far the study of Rabelais, and perhaps of other French writers of the same school encouraged his natural tendencies, and how far these tendencies inclined him to the study of Rabelais, are questions which in the absence of data it is not very profitable to discuss. But he is certainly one of our greatest translators, despite the liberties which he sometimes takes with his text.

George Saintsbury,

DOCTOR SEATON

THERE was another called Doctor Seaton, not a Doctor of Divinity, but one that had his degrees at Padua, and was Doctor utriusque juris; for whose pregnancy of wit, and vast skill in all the mysteries of the civil and canon laws, being accounted one of the ablest men that ever breathed, he was most heartily desired by Pope Urbane the eighth to stay at Rome ; and the better to encourage him thereto, made him chief Professor of the Sapience, a college in Rome so called; where, although he lived a pretty while with great honour and reputation, yet at last, as he was a proud man, falling at some odds with il Collegio Romano, the supremest seat of the Jesuits, and that wherein the general of that numerous society hath his constant residence, he had the courage to adventure coping with them where they were strongest, and in matter of any kind of learning to give defiance to their greatest scholars ; which he did do with such a height of spirit, and in such a lofty and bravashing humour, that, although there was never yet that ecclesiastical incorporation wherein there was so great universality of literature, or multiplicity of learned men, he nevertheless, misregarding what estimation they were in with others, and totally reposing on the stock or basis of his own knowledge, openly gave it out, that if those Teatinos, his choler not suffering him to give them their own name of Jesuits, would offer any longer to continue in vexing him with their frivolous chat and captious argumentations, to the impugning of his opinions, and yet in matters of religion they were both of one and the same faith, he would, like a Hercules amongst so many myrmidons, fall in within the very midst of them, so besquatter them on all sides, and, with the granads of his invincible arguments, put the brains of all and each of them in such a fire, that they should never be able, pump as they would, to find in all the

cellules thereof one drop of either reason or learning wherewith to quench it.

This unequal undertaking of one against so many, whereof some were greater courtiers with his Papal Holiness than he, shortened his abode at Rome, and thereafter did him so much prejudice in his travels through Italy and France, that when at any time he became scarce of money, to which exigent his prodigality often brought him, he could not as before, expect an ayuda de costa, as they call it, or viaticum, from any Prince of the territories through which he was to pass, because the channels of their liberality were stopped, by the rancour and hatred of his conventual adversaries.

When, nevertheless, he was at the lowest ebb of his fortune, his learning, and incomparable facility in expressing any thing with all the choicest ornaments of, and incident variety to the perfection of the Latin elocution, raised him to the dignity of being possessed with the chair of Lipsius, and professing humanity, in Italy called buone lettere, in the famous university of Louvain ; yet, like Mercury, unapt to fix long in any one place, deserting Louvain, he repaired to Paris, where he was held in exceeding great reputation for his good parts, and so universally beloved, that both laics and churchmen, courtiers and scholars, gentlemen and merchants, and almost all manner of people, willing to learn some new thing or other, for, as says Aristotle, every one is desirous of knowledge, were ambitious of the enjoyment of his company, and ravished with his conversation.

For besides that the matter of his discourse was strong, sententious, and witty, he spoke Latin as if he had been another Livy or Sallustius : nor, had he been a native of all the three countries of France, Italy, and Germany, could he have expressed himself, as still he did when he had occasion, with more selected variety of words, nimbler volubility of utterance, or greater dexterity for tone, phrase, and accent, in all the languages thereto belonging.

I have seen him circled about at the Louvre with a ring of French lords and gentlemen, who hearkened to his discourse with so great attention, that none of them, so long as he was pleased to speak, would offer to interrupt him, to the end that the pearls falling from his mouth might be the more orderly congested in the several treasures of their judgments ; the ablest advocates, barristers, or counsellors-at-law of all the Parliament of Paris, even amongst those that did usually plead en la chambre dorée,

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did many times visit him at his house, to get his advice in hard debatable points. He came also to that sublime pitch of good diction even in the French tongue, that there having past, by virtue of a frequent intercourse, several missives in that idiom, betwixt him and the Sieur de Balzak, who, by the quaintest Romancealists of France, and daintiest complimenters of all its luscious youth, was almost uncontrollably esteemed in eloquence to have surpassed Cicero; the strain of Seaton's letters was so high, the fancy so pure, the words so well connexed, and the cadence so just, that Balzak, infinitely taken with its fluent yet concise oratory, to do him the honour that was truly due unto him, most lovingly presented him with a golden pen, in acknowledgment of Seaton's excelling him both in rhetoric and the art of persuasion; which gift proceeding from so great an orator, and for a supereminency in that faculty wherein himself, without contradiction, was held the chiefest of this and all former ages that ever were born in the French nation, could not choose but be accounted honourable. Many learned books were written by this Seaton in the Latin tongue, whose titles, to speak ingenuously, I cannot hit upon.

From 'Εκσκυβάλαυρον: or The discovery of a most exquisite jewel, more precious than diamonds . . . found in the kennel of Worcester streets, the day after the fight and six before the autumnal equinox, anno 1651, to frontal a Vindication of the Honour of Scotland . . . wherein the Presbyterian party . . . hath involved it.

THE DESIGN OF THE THIRD BOOK, ENTITULED CLERONOMAPORIA

As in the book immediately foregoing, the Author very plainly hath pointed at the main block which lieth in the way as a hindrance to the progress of his brain-itineraries; so in this, the third of his Introduction, doth he, with great perspicacity, educe most peremptory reasons out of the clearest springs of both modern and ancient, divine and human law, why it should be removed. In the meanwhile, the better to prepare the reader

towards a matter of so prime concernment, he begins the purpose with a peculiar and domestic narrative of the manner how these impediments were cast in, to the end that the more unjustly he was dealt with by the persons who did inject them, the greater justice may appear in his relief from their oppressions.

To have mentioned such particulars, and unfolded them to the view of the public, did very much damp the genius of the author, who, could he have otherways done, would undoubtedly have manifested a most cordial dislike of any motion tending to approve the offering unto Pan the sacrifice of the household gods, or disclosing to all the mysteries of penatal rites ; but the thread of the discourse hanging thereupon, without a gap in its contexture, it could not be avoided.

Especially that generous and worthy knight, the author's father, having been unparallelledly wronged by false, wicked, and covetous men, himself being of all men living the justest, equallest, and most honest in his dealings, his humour was, rather than to break his word, to lose all he had, and stand to his most undeliberate promises, what ever they might cost ;

which too strict adherence to the austerest principles of veracity, proved oftentimes damageable to him in his negociations with many cunning sharks, who knew with what profitable odds they could screw themselves in upon the windings of so good a nature.

He, in all the (near upon) sixty years that he lived, never injured any man voluntarily, though by protecting and seconding of some unthankful men he did much prejudice himself ; he never refused to be surety for any, so cordial he was towards his acquaintance, yet, contrary to all expectations, his kindness therein was attended by so much good luck, that he never paid above two hundred pounds English for all his vadimonial favours.

By the unfaithfulness, on the one side, of some of his menial servants, in filching from him much of his personal estate, and falsehood of several chamberlains and bailiffs to whom he had intrusted the managing of his rents, in the unconscionable discharge of their receipts, by giving up one account thrice, and of such accounts many ; and, on the other part, by the frequency of disadvantageous bargains, which the slyness of the subtle merchant did involve him in, his loss came unawares upon him, and irresistibly, like an armed man ;

too great trust to the one, and facility in behalf of the other, occasioning so grievous a misfortune, which neverthless did not proceed from want of knowledge or ability in natural parts, for in the business of other men he would have given a

very sound advice, and was surpassing dextrous in arbitrcments upon any reference submitted to him, but that he thought it did derogate from the nobility of his house and reputation of his person, to look to petty things in matter of his own affairs. Whereupon, after forty years' custom, being habituated thereunto, he found himself at last, to his great regret, insensibly plunged into inextricable difficulties ; in the large field whereof, the insatiable creditor, to make his harvest by the ruin of that family, struck in with his sickle, and by masking himself with a vizard composed of the rags of the Scottish law, in its severest sense, claims the same right to the whole inheritance that Robin Hood did to Frankindal's money, for being master of the purse wherein it was. Those wretched and unequitable courses, indefatigably prosecuted by merciless men to the utter undoing of the author and exterministion of his name, have induced him, out of his respect to antiquity, his piety to succession, and that intinn regard of himself which by divine injunction ought to be the rule and measure of his love towards his neighbour, to set down in this parcel of his Introduction, the cruel usage wherewith he hath been served these many years past by that inexorable race, the lamentable preparatives which, by granting their desires, would ensue to the extirpation of worthy pedigrees, and the unexemplifiable injustice thereby redounding to him who never was in any thing obliged to them. The premisses he enlargeth with divers quaint and pertinent similes, and after a neat apparelling of usury in its holiday garments, he deduceth, from the laws and customs of all nations, the tender care that ought to be had in the preservation of ancient families ; the particulars whereof, in matter of ordonance he evidenceth by the acts of Solon, the decrees of the decemvirs, and statutes of the Twelve Tables ; and for its executional part, in the persons of Q. Fabius, Tiberius the Emperor, and the Israelitish observers of the sacred institution of Jubilees. By which enarrarion nothing is more clearly inferred, than that, seeing both Jews and Gentiles, Painims and Christians, in their both monarchical and polyarchical governments, have been so zealous in their obsequiousness to so pious a mandate, that the present age being no less concerned in the happy fruits thereof than the good days of old, the splendid authority of this Isle should be pleased not to eclipse their commendation by innovating any thing in the author's case. Who, deciphering the implacability of flagitators, by showing how they throw in

obstacles retarding their own payment, thereby tacitly to hasten his destruction, and hinting at the unnatural breach of some of his fiduciaries, he particularizeth the candour of his own endeavours, and nixuriencie to give all men contentment; the discourse whereof, in all its periods, very well deserveth the serious animadversion of the ingenious reader.

SIR THOMAS BROWNE

[Thomas Browne, who was knighted by Charles the Second in the year 1671, was born at London in or near Cheapside, on the 19th October 1605, his father being a mercer, but of a good Cheshire family, his mother, Ann Garraway of Sussex. The father died early, and the mother married again, her second husband, Sir Thomas Dutton, being probably identical with a soldier of a quick temper who killed his colonel, Sir Hatton Cheeke, in a duel. He seems, however, to have been a friendly stepfather, and can have had nothing to do with the inroad said to have been made on the child's fortune by a dishonest guardian. Nor are there any signs of straitened means in any part of Browne's career He became a scholar of Winchester in 1616, and matriculated at Broadgate Hall, Oxford (which during his residence became Pembroke College) seven years later. The date of his B.A. degree was 1626, of his M.A. 1629, and about four years later he took the further degree of Doctor of Medicine at Leyden. He is said to have practised earlier in Oxfordshire, to have spent some time in Ireland, and then to have travelled a good deal on the Continent. After returning, and perhaps after some professional stay both in London and in Yorkshire, he settled in 1636 at Norwich, which was his home for the remainder of his life. In 1641 he married a Norfolk lady, Dorothy Mileham, who brought him into relations with some of the best families of the county. He was incorporated as M.D. of his own University in 1637 ; became Fellow of the College of Physicians in 1665 ; was knighted, as above mentioned, and died of a colic on his birthday in the year 1682. His domestic relations, of which we have some memorials in letters, etc., appear to have been uniformly happy, and his entire life was spent quietly in the practice of his profession, and the study of the sciences appertaining to it. His first literary appearance was made with the Religio Medici, written, as it would appear, about his thirtieth year, but not published till seven years later (1642), and then, by his own account, surreptitiously. A controversy, for which there is no room here, followed The Pseudodoxia Epidemica, or Vulgar Errors, his longest and most popular work appeared in 1646 ; and he published the Hydriotaphia or Urn Burial, and the Garden of Cyrus in 1658. Nothing more was printed in his lifetime, but additions were subsequently made, the most important of which was the Christian Morals, not published till 1716. The standard edition of Browne, a most excellent one, is that of Simon Wilkin, first published in four volumes in 1835, and since included in three volumes of Bohn's Library. Two editions of separate works are sufficiently important to be mentioned, that of Christian Morals (1756), with a Life certainly and notes probably (certainly to me) by Dr. Johnson, and that of the same book with the Religio Medici, and a Letter to a Friend, by Dr Greenhill, 1881, notable for the extraordinary minuteness of the pains taken with the text and vocabulary.]

Guy Patin when, very shortly after the appearance of Religio Medici, a Latin translation by John Merryweather had brought the book to the notice of continental men of letters, described Browne as "un melancholique agréable en ses pensées." There may have been a little in this of the traditional estimate of English sadness. But Patin was a man of very shrewd and unprejudiced mind, and there was not as yet in his time the severance between insular and continental thought and letters which the disuse of Latin and the overbearing rise of French power and credit, political and literary, were soon to bring about. And the judgment, though inadequate, is neither inaccurate nor superficial.

In temperament, as well as in those perhaps inseparable accidents of temperament, which are called manner and style, Browne strongly resembles, though with remarkable differences, his earlier contemporary, Burton. There was indeed nothing "horrid" about Browne's melancholy, as there is traditionally asserted to have been about Burton's, and the abundant sights which we have of him—writing to his children, mixing in the society of Norwich, noting its antiquities, and the natural history of its neighbourhood—are almost as cheerful as they can be. But it must be remembered that about Burton's private character and ways we really know nothing at all. Comparing the works of the two men we find in Browne a somewhat slighter tendency to regard all things in relation to spiritual valetudinarianism, a more poetical temper, a more rhetorical style, more mysticism, and a more decided piety.

But there is in him also the principal mark of the Burtonian melancholy, the ceaseless contemplation of things from the point of view of an unsatisfied and unflinching curiosity, which seems to regard the attempt to satisfy itself as the only panacea, or at least palliative, for the evils of life. Both are humorous, from which it will follow as the night the day that both are melancholy. And though Browne does not necessarily see, and probably was not at all disposed to see all things in melancholy as does his neighbour on the other side of St. Aldate's, there is at least an equally strong undercurrent of this quality in him. Not merely in the famous and almost hackneyed, but here of necessity once more quoted peroration of the Urn Burial, where the subject may be said to have demanded it, but always when he is in his most impressive key, the note of sadness, not passionate or querulous, but contemplative and questioning, is heard.

That Browne must have been an exceedingly careful writer is

not only obvious from the most cursory perusal of his work, but may be said to be established beyond a doubt by documentary evidence. In the first place there is the very significant fact that almost all his ornate and most striking passages are to be found in the works which he himself prepared for the press and sent through it ; while the posthumous works, though considerable in bulk, much more rarely exhibit them. In the second place, by a piece of good luck too rare with English authors of the first class, we possess large stores of Browne's MSS. which were bought by Sir Hans Sloane, and thus passed to the British Museum. And these contain numerous variants, first drafts, supplements, and the like, to and of the more elaborate passages. The fact, however, could not be doubted if we had no such evidence. It is perfectly clear that Browne was, in the older and good sense, one of the most artificial writers of English that ever existed. Very few English authors—Shakespeare and Pope are the chief exceptions —have had the benefit of special lexicons such as those which, under the care of M. Adolphe Regnier and his coadjutors and successors, have been gradually compiled for almost all the greater authors of France. But if no one has yet attempted this for the whole of Browne's opuscula which he edited, as a part and a main part of an "index" which fills seventy pages to barely thrice that number of text. There is thus brought together, in an easy conspectus, what all careful readers of Browne must have always had before them dispersedly—his unmatched audacity and fecundity of vocabulary. Disengaged from its accompanying matter, and enriched with a similar glossary to the Pseudodoxia and the other works, it would probably constitute the most remarkable repertory of the kind in English.

It is generally and sufficiently known that most of this vocabulary is borrowed from the classical languages, and especially from Latin. It has indeed become a commonplace that Johnson's comparatively early work on Browne determined his own indulg-ence in this direction ; though Johnson never Latinised with half the temerity of his master. But it would be at once an insufficiency and an injustice to put Browne down as a mere "Limousin student," a mere clumsy corruptor of his native tongue with Latinisms and Græcisms. He was the less likely to be this, inasmuch as he was a diligent reader, and a keen relisher of Rabelais himself, and has left among his letters a Pantagruelist epistle

which puzzled the excellent Wilkin, but which is masterly in sense and form, and very easily intelligible to all followers of Master Francis. Still less did he, like a contemporary whose Pantagruelism was equally undoubted, Sir Thomas Urquhart, run wild in classical or pseudo-classical compounds. But Browne never hesitated to use a Latin word in its most idiomatic Latin sense whenever he felt disposed ; and what is more he did not scruple to attach remote connotations of meaning to the words that he borrowed. So, too, he would be indebted to the special sciences for terms of art,—heraldic, medical, philosophic,—and would use them unexplained and at the peril of his auditor whenever their sound or sense pleased him. He would be vernacular whenever he chose ; and contrary to the wont of those who specially affect the ancient tongues of literature, he had no scruple in employing a modern foreign word — French, Italian, or Spanish — when it seemed to him to be desirable. That his license in these respects was, in one of his own most idiomatic words, “controllable” —that is to say exposed to revision and disapproval—it would be extremely rash to deny. That it was in the other sense controlled for the most part by scholarship, by sound sense, and by literary taste, I, for my part, fully believe.

But this coloured, chequered, and almost fantastic vocabulary was only the raw material of Browne’s literary art. It was to him something like the marquetry materials, the coloured woods, the ivory, the tortoise-shell, the brass which the great French artists in furniture of his own latest days used in such a surprising manner. It is usual, and not improper, to conjoin Browne, Milton, and Taylor, as the three chief examples of ornate classicising magnificence in seventeenth-century English prose. But Browne deserves distinction from the two great men whose lives and whose styles so nearly coincided with his, for a much greater attention to composition proper. It is true that his syntax, indeed that his whole arrangement is, like his vocabulary, excessively classical. But it has more rarely led him than the others into positive faults of English. Writing as he did, not for pulpit delivery, not under the strain and stress of the necessities of the political pamphlet, but quietly in his study for publication at long intervals of years, he was almost bound to avoid, he certainly did as a rule though not always, avoid, the anacolutha, the confusions of English and Latin constructions, the clumsy sentences to which both Milton and Taylor were too prone. And he was more con-

stantly able than they were (though there is no doubt little to choose between the three at their very best) to communicate to his sentences that sound as of the silver trumpet, that wonderful melody of rhythmed though not metrical prose which is the peculiar glory of his age.

Even the most strictly formal criticism must, however, notice elements in the fascination exercised by Browne, which are independent of his strange and gorgeous vocabulary, independent even of the attitude of melancholy yet affable irony which was referred to at the beginning of these remarks. His wide, it may almost be said his immense, reading was characteristic of his time, and though an additional, it is not a distinguishing charm. But there is in him something else which is almost wholly his own, which is not in Milton, or in Fuller, or in Glanvill, which is certainly not in Hobbes or Burton, and which makes one disposed to borrow Donne's hyperbole and say of his style that "it's body thought."

It is observable first of course, and perhaps also most, in Religio Medici, to which I should like to affix the sub-titles "Religio Anglicani, Religio generosi, Religio Philosophi." But it is observable also in all works up to what seems to have been the last, though it is not the least, the Christian Morals. Some give less room for it than others ; but always, wherever there is an opening -in the multifarious miscellany of the Vulgar Errors, in the quaint mysticism of the Garden of Cyrus, in the affectionate reasoning of the Letter to a Friend, in the learned disquisition and glowing rhetoric of the Urn Burial—it is there. It is a combination of the profoundest scepticism with the most fervent belief ; a perfect ability to exercise the pickaxe and shovel of logic joined to a consciousness that anywhere may be met the wall of adamant against which pickaxe and shovel are powerless ; a union of mathematical and mystical proficiency for which we may look elsewhere in vain. And perhaps hardly anything save this combination could have informed his style with its exquisite and unsurpassed quality.

GEORGE SAINTSBURY.

PART OF ADDRESS TO READER

OUR first intentions, considering the common interest of truth, resolved to propose it unto the Latin republick and equal judges of Europe, but, owing in the first place this service unto our country, and therein especially unto its ingenuous gentry, we have declared ourselves in a language best conceived. Although I confess the quality of the subject will sometimes carry us into expressions beyond mere English apprehensions. And, indeed, if elegancy still proceedeth, and English pens maintain that stream we have of late observed to flow from many, we shall, within few years, be fain to learn Latin to understand English, and a work will prove of equal facility in either. Nor have we addressed our pen or style unto the people (whom books do not redress, and who are this way incapable of reduction), but unto the knowing and leading part of learning. As well understanding (at least probably hoping) except they be watered from higher regions, and fructifying meteors of knowledge, these weeds must lose their alimental sap, and wither of themselves. Whose conserving influence could our endeavours prevent, we should trust the rest unto the scythe of time, and hopeful dominion of truth.

We hope it will not be unconsidered, that we find no open tract, or constant manuduction in this labyrinth, but are oft-times fain to wander in the America and untravelled parts of truth. For though, not many years past, Dr. Primrose hath made a learned discourse of Vulgar Errors in Physick, yet have we discoursed but two or three thereof. Scipio Mercurii hath also left an excellent tract in Italian, concerning Popular Errors; but, confining himself only unto those in physick, he hath little conduced unto the generality of our doctrine. Laurentius Joubertus, by the same title, led our expectation into thoughts of great relief; whereby, notwithstanding, we reaped no advantage, it answering scarce at all the promise of the inscription. Nor,

perhaps (if it were yet extant), should we find any further assistance from that ancient piece of Andreas, pretending the same title. And, therefore, we are often constrained to stand alone against the strength of opinion, and to meet the Goliath and giant of authority, with contemptible pebbles and feeble arguments, drawn from the scrip and slender stock of ourselves. Nor have we, indeed, scarce named any author whose name we do not honour; and if detraction could invite us, discretion surely would contain us from any derogatory intention, where highest pens and friendliest eloquence must fail in commendation.

And therefore also we cannot but hope the equitable considerations, and candour of reasonable minds. We cannot expect the frown of theology herein; nor can they which behold the present state of things, and controversy of points so long received in divinity, condemn our sober enquiries in the doubtful appurtenances of arts, and receptaries of philosophy. Surely philologers and critical discoursers, who look beyond the shell and obvious exteriours of things, will not be angry with our narrower explorations. And we cannot doubt, our brothers in physick (whose knowledge in naturals will lead them into a nearer apprehension of many things delivered) will friendly accept, if not countenance, our endeavours. Nor can we conceive it may be unwelcome unto those honoured worthies who endeavour the advancement of learning; as being likely to find a clearer progression, when so many rubs are levelled, and many untruths taken off, which passing as principles with common beliefs, disturb the tranquillity of axioms which otherwise might be raised. And wise men cannot but know that arts and learning want this expurgation; and if the course of truth be permitted unto itself, like that of time and uncorrected computations, it cannot escape many errors, which duration still enlargeth.

Lastly, we are not magisterial in opinions, nor have we dictator-like obtruded our conceptions: but, in the humility of enquiries or disquisitions, have only proposed them unto more ocular discerners. And therefore opinions are free; and open it is for any to think or declare the contrary. And we shall so far encourage contradiction, as to promise no disturbance, or re-oppose any pen, that shall fallaciously or captiously refute us; that shall only lay hold of our lapses, single out digressions, corollarics, or ornamental conceptions, to evidence his own in as indifferent truths. And shall only take notice of such, whose

experimental and judicious knowledge shall solemnly look upon it ; not only to destroy of ours, but to establish of his own ; not to traduce or extenuate, but to explain and dilucidate, to add and ampliate, according to the laudable custom of the ancients in their sober promotions of learning. Unto whom notwithstanding, we shall not contentiously rejoin, or only to justify our own, but to applaud or confirm his maturer assertions ; and shall confer what is in us unto his name and honour ; ready to be swallowed in any worthy enlarger ;—as having acquired our end, if any way, or under any name, we may obtain a work, so much desired, and yet desiderated, of truth.

(From Pseudodoxia Epidemica.)

OF GRIFFINS

THAT there are griffins in nature, that is, a mixed and dubious animal, in the forepart resembling an eagle, and behind the shape of a lion, with erected ears, four feet, and a long tail, many affirm, and most, I perceive, deny not. The same is averred by Ælian, Solinus, Mela, and Herodotus—countenanced by the name sometimes found in Scripture, and was an hieroglyphic of the Egyptians.

Notwithstanding we find most diligent enquirers to be of a contrary assertion. For beside that Albertus and Pliny have disallowed it, the learned Aldrovandus hath, in a large discourse rejected it ; Matthias Michovius, who writ of those northern parts wherein men place these griffins, hath positively concluded against it ; and, if examined by the doctrine of animals, the invention is monstruous, nor much inferior unto the figment of sphynx, chimæra, and harpies ; for though there be some flying animals of mixed and participating natures, that is, between bird and quadruped, yet are their wings and legs so set together, that they seem to make each other, there being a commixtion of both, rather than an adaptation or cement of prominent parts unto each other ; as is observable in the bat, whose wings and forelegs are contrived in each other.

For though some species there be of middle and participating natures, that is, of bird and beast, as bats and some few others ; yet are their parts so conformed and set together, that we cannot define the beginning or end of either ; there being a commixtion of both in the whole, rather than an adaptation or cement of the one unto the other.

Now for the word γρúψ or gryps, sometimes mentioned in Scripture, and frequently in human authors, properly understood it signifies some kind of eagle or vulture, from whence the epithet grypus, for an hooked or aquiline nose. Thus when the Septuagint makes use of this word, Tremellius, and our translation, hath rendered it the ossifrage, which is one kind of eagle. And although the vulgar translation, and that annexed unto the Septuagint, retain the word gryps, which in ordinary and school construction is commonly rendered a griffin, yet cannot the Latin assume any other sense than the Greek, from whence it is borrowed. And though the Latin gryphes be altered somewhat by the addition of an h, or aspiration of the letter π, yet is not this unusual; so what the Greeks call τρόπaıov, the Latin will call trophœum; and that person which in the Gospel is named Κλέoπας, the Latins will render Cleophas. And therefore the quarrel of Origen was unjust, and his conception erroneous, when he conceived the food of griffins forbidden by the law of Moses ; that is, poetical animals, and things of no existence. And therefore, when in the hecatombs and mighty oblations of the Gentiles, it is delivered they sacrificed gryphes or griffins, hereby we may understand some stronger sort of eagles. And thereiore also, when it is said in Virgil, of an improper match, or Mopsus marrying Nysa, Jungentur jam gryphes equis, we need not hunt after other sense, than that strange unions shall be made, and different natures be conjoined together.

As for the testimonies of ancient writers, they are but derivative, and terminate all in one Aristeus, a poet of Proconesus, who affirmed that near the Arimaspi, or one-eyed nation, griffins defended the mines of gold. But this, as Herodotus delivereth, he wrote by hear-say; and Michovius, who had expressly written of those parts, plainly affirmeth, there is neither gold nor griffins in that country, nor any such animal extant ; for so doth he conclude, Ego vero contra veteres authores, gryphes nec in illa septentrionis, nec in aliis orbis partibus inveniri affirmarin.

Lastly, concerning the hieroglyphical authority, although it nearest approach the truth, it doth not infer its existence. The conceit of the griffin, properly taken, being but a symbolical fancy, in so intolerable a shape including allowable morality. So doth it well make out the properties of a guardian, or any person entrusted ; the ears implying attention ; the wings, celerity of execution ; the lion-like shape, courage and audacity ; the

VOL. II

hooked bill, reservance and tenacity. It is also an emblem of

valour and magnanimity, as being compounded of the eagle and

lion, the noblest animals in their kinds; and so it is appliable

unto princes, presidents, generals, and all heroic commanders;

and so is it also borne in the coat-arms of many noble families of

Europe.

But the original invention seems to be hieroglyphical, derived

from the Egyptians, and of an higher signification; by the mystical

conjunction of hawk and lion, implying either the genial or the

syderous sun, the great celerity thereof, and the strength and

vigour in its operations: and therefore, under such hieroglyphics

Osyris was described; and in ancient coins we meet with griffins

conjointly with Apollo's tripodes and chariot wheels; and the

marble griffins at St. Peter's in Rome, as learned men conjecture,

were first translated from the temple of Apollo. Whether hereby

were not also mystically implied the activity of the sun in Leo,

the power of God in the sun, or the influence of the celestial

Osyris, by Moptha, the genius of Nilus, might also be considered.

And than the learned Kircherus, no man were likely to be a

better Œdipus.

(From the Same.)

FAITH IN MYSTERIES

As for those wingy mysteries in divinity, and airy subtleties in

religion, which have unhinged the brains of better heads, they

never stretched the pia mater of mine. Methinks there be not

impossibilities enough in religion for an active faith: the deepest

mysteries ours contains have not only been illustrated, but main-

tained, by syllogism and the rule of reason. I love to lose myself

in a mystery; to pursue my reason to an O altitudo! 'Tis my

solitary recreation to pose my apprehension with those

enigmas and riddles of the Trinity, incarnation and resurrection.

I can answer all the objections of Satan and my rebellious reason

with that odd resolution I learned of Tertullian, Certum est quia

impossibile est. I desire to exercise my faith in the difficultest

point; for, to credit ordinary and visible objects, is not faith but

persuasion. Some believe the better for seeing Christ's sepulchre;

and, when they have seen the Red Sea, doubt not of the miracle.

Now contrarily, I bless myself, and am thankful, that I lived not

in the days of miracles ; that I never saw Christ nor His disciples.

I would not have been one of those Israelites that passed the

Red Sea ; nor one of Christ's patients, on whom He wrought His

wonders : then had my faith been thrust upon me ; nor should I

enjoy that greater blessing pronounced to all that believe and

saw not. 'Tis an easy and necessary belief, to credit what our

eye and sense hath examined. I believe He was dead, and

buried, and rose again ; and desire to see Him in His glory,

rather than to contemplate Him in His cenotaph or sepulchre.

Nor is this much to believe : as we have reason, we owe this

faith unto history : they only had the advantage of a bold and

noble faith, who lived before His coming, who, upon obscure

prophecies and mystical types, could raise a belief, and expect

apparent impossibilities.

(From Religio Medici.)

A PROVIDENCE IN FORTUNE

THIS is the ordinary and open way of His providence, which art

and industry have in a good part discovered ; whose effects we

may foretell without an oracle. To foreshew these is not prophecy

but prognostication. There is another way, full of meanders and

labyrinths, whereof the devil and spirits have no exact ephemerides ;

and that is a more particular and obscure method of His provi-

dence ; directing the operations of individual and single essences :

this we call fortune ; that serpentine and crooked line, whereby

He draws those actions His wisdom intends in a more unknown

and secret way : this cryptic and involved method of His provi-

dence have I ever admired ; nor can I relate the history of my

life, the occurrences of my days, the escapes, or dangers, and

hits of chance, with a bezo las manos to Fortune, or a bare

gramercy to my good stars. Abraham might have thought the

ram in the thicket came thither by accident: human reason

would have said, that mere chance conveyed Moses in the ark

to the sight of Pharaoh's daughter. What a labyrinth is there in

the story of Joseph ! able to convert a stoick. Surely there

are in every r:n's life certain rubs, doublings, and wrenches,

which pass a while under the effects of chance ; but at

the last, well examined, prove the mere hand of God. 'Twas

not dumb chance that, to discover the fougade, or powder-plot,

contrived a miscarriage in the letter. I like the victory of '88 the better for that one occurrence which our enemies imputed to our dishonour, and the partiality of fortune ; to wit the tempests and contrariety of winds. King Philip did not detract from the nation, when he said, he sent his armada to fight with men, and not to combat with the winds. Where there is a manifest dis-proportion between the powers and forces of two several agents, upon a maxim of reason we may promise the victory to the superior : but when unexpected accidents slip in, and unthought-of occurrences intervene, these must proceed from a power that owes no obedience to those axioms ; where, as in the writing upon the wall, we may behold the hand, but see not the spring that moves it. The success of that petty province of Holland (of which the grand Seignior proudly said, if they should trouble him, as they did the Spaniard, he would send his men with shovels and pickaxes, and throw it into the sea) I cannot altogether ascribe to the ingenuity and industry of the people, but the mercy of God, that hath disposed them to such a thriving genius ; and to the will of His providence, that dispenseth His favour to each country in their preordinate season. All cannot be happy at once ; for, because the glory of one state depends upon the ruin of another, there is a revolution and vicissitude of their greatness, and must obey the swing of that wheel, not moved by intelligences, but by the hand of God, whereby all estates arise to their zenith and vertical points, according to their predestinated periods. For the lives, not only of men, but of commonwealths and the whole world, run not upon a helix that still enlargeth ; but on a circle, where, arriving to their meridian, they decline in obscurity, and fall under the horizon again.

(From the Same.)

OF THE NATURE OF ANGELS

THEREFORE, for spirits, I am so far from denying their existence, that I could easily believe, that not only whole countries, but particular persons, have their tutelary and guardian angels. It is not a new opinion of the church of Rome, but an old one of Pythagoras and Plato : there is no heresy in it : and if not man-festly defined in Scripture, yet it is an opinion of a good and wholesome use in the course and actions of a man's life ; and

would serve as an hypothesis to salve many doubts, whereof common philosophy affordeth no solution. Now, if you demand my opinion and metaphysicks of their natures, I confess them very shallow; most of them, in a negative way, like that of God; or in a comparative, between ourselves and fellow-creatures: for there is in this universe a stair, or manifest scale, of creatures, rising not disorderly, or in confusion, but with a comely method and proportion. Between creatures of mere existence and things of life there is a large disproportion of nature: between plants and animals, or creatures of sense, a wider difference: between them and man, a far greater: and if the proportion hold on, between man and angels there should be yet a greater. We do not comprehend their natures, who retain the first definition of Porphyry; and distinguish them from ourselves by immortality: for, before his fall, man also was immortal: yet must we needs affirm that he had a different essence from the angels. Having, therefore, no certain knowledge of their nature, 'tis no bad method of the schools, whatsoever perfection we find obscurely in our- selves, in a more complete and absolute way to ascribe unto them. I believe they have an extemporary knowledge, and, upon the first motion of their reason, do what we cannot without study or deliberation: that they know things by their forms, and define, by specifical difference, what we describe by accidents and properties: and therefore probabilities to us may be demonstra- tions unto them; that they have knowledge not only of the specifical, but numerical, forms of individuals, and understand by what reserved difference each single hypostasis (besides the relation to its species) becomes its numerical self; that, as the soul hath a power to move the body it informs, so there's a faculty to move any, though inform none: ours upon restraint of time, place, and distance: but that invisible hand that conveyed Habakkuk to the lion's den, or Philip to Azotus, infringeth this rule, and hath a secret conveyance, wherewith mortality is not acquainted. If they have that intuitive knowledge, whereby, as in reflection, they behold the thoughts of one another, I cannot peremptorily deny but they know a great part of ours. They that, to refute the invocation of saints, have denied that they have any knowledge of our affairs below, have proceeded too far, and must pardon my opinion, till I can thoroughly answer that piece of Scripture, "At the conversion of a sinner, the angels in heaven rejoice." I cannot, with those in that great father, securely in-

terpret the work of the first day, fiat lux, to the creation of angels ; though I confess there is not any creature that hath so near a glimpse of their nature as light in the sun and elements : we style it a bare accident ; but, where it subsists alone, 'tis a spiritual substance, and may be an angel ; in brief, conceive light invisible, and that is a spirit.

(From the Same.)

THE SOUL ILLIMITABLE

Now for my life, it is a miracle of thirty years, which to relate, were not a history, but a piece of poetry, and would sound to common ears like a fable. For the world, I count it not an inn, but a hospital ; and a place not to live, but to die in. The world that I regard is myself; it is the microcosm of my own frame that I cast mine eye on ; for the other, I use it but like my globe, and turn it round sometimes for my recreation. Men that look upon my outside, perusing only my condition and fortunes, do err in my altitude ; for I am above Atlas's shoulders. The earth is a point not only in respect of the heavens above us, but of that heavenly and celestial part within us. That mass of flesh that circumscribes me limits not my mind. That surface that tells the heavens it hath an end cannot persuade me I have any. I take my circle to be about three hundred and sixty. Though the number of the ark do measure my body, it comprehendeth not my mind. Whilst I study to find how I am a microcosm, or little world, I find myself something more than the great. There is surely a piece of divinity in us ; something that was before the elements, and owes no homage unto the sun. Nature tells me, I am the image of God, as well as Scripture. He that understands not thus much hath not his introduction or first lesson, and is yet to begin the alphabet of man. Let me not injure the felicity of others, if I say I am as happy as any. Ruat cœlum, fiat voluntas tua, salveth all ; so that, whatsoever happens, it is but what our daily prayers desire. In brief, I am content ; and what should providence add more? Surely this is it we call happiness, and this do I enjoy ; with this I am happy in a dream, and as content to enjoy a happiness in a fancy, as others in a more apparent truth and reality. There is surely a nearer apprehension of anything that delights us in our dreams, than in our waked senses. Without this I were unhappy ; for my awaked

judgment discontents me, ever whispering unto me that I am from my friend, but my friendly dreams in the night requite me, and make me think I am within his arms. I thank God for my happy dreams, as I do for my good rest ; for there is a satisfaction in them unto reasonable desires, and such as can be content with a fit of happiness. And surely it is not a melancholy conceit to think we are all asleep in this world, and that the conceits of this life are as mere dreams, to those of the next, as the phantasms of the night, to the conceit of the day. There is an equal delusion in both ; and the one doth but seem to be the emblem or picture of the other. We are somewhat more than ourselves in our sleeps ; and the slumber of the body seems to be but the waking of the soul. It is the ligation of sense, but the liberty of reason ; and our waking conceptions do not match the fancies of our sleeps. At my nativity, my ascendant was the earthly sign of Scorpio. I was born in the planetary hour of Saturn, and I think I have a piece of that leaden planet in me. I am no way facetious, nor disposed for the mirth and galliardise of company ; yet in one dream I can compose a whole comedy, behold the action, apprehend the jests, and laugh myself awake at the conceits thereof. Were my memory as faithful as my reason is then fruitful, I would never study but in my dreams, and this time also would I choose for my devotions : but our grosser memories have then so little hold of our abstracted understandings, that they forget the story, and can only relate to our awakened souls a confused and broken tale of that which hath passed. Aristotle, who hath written a singular tract of sleep, hath not methinks thoroughly defined it ; nor yet Galen, though he seems to have corrected it ; for those noctambulos and night-walkers, though in their sleep, do yet enjoy the action of their senses. We must therefore say that there is something in us that is not in the jurisdiction of Morpheus ; and that those abstracted and ecstatick souls do walk about in their own corpses, as spirits with the bodies they assume, wherein they seem to hear, see, and feel though indeed the organs are destitute of sense, and their natures of those faculties that should inform them. Thus it is observed, that men sometimes, upon the hour of their departure, do speak and reason above themselves. For then the soul begins to be freed from the ligaments of the body, begins to reason like herself, and to discourse in a strain above mortality. (From the Same.)

But the quincunx of heaven runs low, and 'tis time to close the five ports of knowledge. We are unwilling to spin out our awaking thoughts into the phantasms of sleep, which often continueth precogitations ; making cables of cobwebs, and wildernesses of handsome groves. Beside Hippocrates hath spoke so little, and the oneirocritical masters have left such frigid interpretations from plants, that there is little encouragement to dream of paradise itself. Nor will the sweetest delight of gardens afford much comfort in sleep ; wherein the dulness of that sense shakes hands with delectable odours ; and though in the bed of Cleopatra, can hardly with any delight raise up the ghost of a rose.

Night, which Pagan theology could make the daughter of Chaos, affords no advantage to the description of order ; although no lower than that mass can we derive its genealogy. All things began in order, so shall they end, and so shall they begin again ; according to the ordainer of order and mystical mathematicks of the city of heaven.

Though Somnus in Homer be sent to rouse up Agamemnon, I find no such effects in these drowsy approaches of sleep. To keep our eyes open longer were but to act our antipodes. The huntsmen are up in America, and they are already past their first sleep in Persia. But who can be drowsy at that hour which freed us from everlasting sleep? or have slumbering thoughts at that time, when sleep itself must end, and as some conjecture all shall awake again.

(From the Garden of Cyrus.)

THE VANITY OF AMBITION

Now since these dead bones have already out-lasted the living ones of Methuselah, and, in a yard under ground and thin walls of clay, out-worn all the strong and specious buildings above it ; and quietly rested under the drums and tramlings of three conquests : what prince can promise such diuturnity unto his relicks, or might not gladly say,

Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim?

Time, which antiquates antiquities, and hath an art to make dust of all things, hath yet spared these minor monuments. In vain we hope to be known by open and visible conservatories, when to be unknown was the means of their continuation, and obscurity their protection. If they died by violent hands, and were thrust into their urns, these bones become considerable, and some old philosophers would honour them, whose souls they conceived most pure, which were thus snatched from their bodies, and to retain a stronger propension unto them; whereas they weariedly left a languishing corpse, and with faint desires of reunion. If they fell by long and aged decay, yet wrapt up in the bundle of infants. If we begin to die when we live, and long life be but a prolongation of death, our life is a sad composition; we live with death, and die not in a moment. How many pulses made up the life of Methuselah, were work for Archimedes: common counters sum up the life of Moses his man. Our days become considerable, like petty sums, by minute accumulations; where numerous fractions make up but small round numbers; and our days of a span long, make not one little finger.

If the nearness of our last necessity brought a nearer conformity into it, there were a happiness in hoary hairs, and no calamity in half senses. But the long habit of living indisposeth us for dying; when avarice makes us the sport of death, when even David grew politickly cruel, and Solomon could hardly be said to be the wisest of men. But many are too early old, and before the date of age. Adversity stretcheth our days, misery makes Alcmene's nights, and time hath no wings unto it. But the most tedious being is that which can unwish itself, content to be nothing, or never to have been, which was beyond the malcontent of Job, who cursed not the day of his life, but his nativity; content to have so far been, as to have a title to future being, although he had lived here but in an hidden state of life, and as it were an abortion.

What song the Sirens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, though puzzling questions, are not beyond all conjecture. What time the persons of these ossuaries entered the famous nations of the dead, and slept with princes and counsellors, might admit a wide solution. But who were the proprietaries of these bones, or what bodies these ashes made up, were a question above antiquarism; not to be

resolved by man, nor easily perhaps by spirits, except we consult

the provincial guardians, or tutelary observators. Had they

made as good provision for their names, as they have done for

their relicks, they had not so grossly erred in the art of perpetua-

tion. But to subsist in bones, and be but pyramidally extant, is

a fallacy in duration. Vain ashes which in the oblivion of

names, persons, times, and sexes, have found unto themselves a

fruitless continuation, and only arise unto late posterity, as

emblems of mortal vanities, antidotes against pride, vain-glory,

and madding vices. Pagan vain-glories which thought the

world might last for ever, had encouragement for ambition ; and,

finding no atropos unto the immortality of their names, were

never damped with the necessity of oblivion. Even old ambitions

had the advantage of ours, in the attempts of their vain-glories,

who acting early, and before the probable meridian of time, have

by this time found great accomplishment of their designs,

whereby the ancient heroes have already out-lasted their

monuments and mechanical preservations. But in this latter

scene of time, we cannot expect such mummies unto our

memories, when ambition may fear the prophecy of Elias, and

Charles the Fifth can never hope to live within two Methuselahs

of Hector.

And therefore, restless inquietude for the diuturnity of our

memories unto present considerations seems a vanity almost out

of date, and superannuated piece of folly. We cannot hope to

live so long in our names, as some have done in their persons.

One face of Janus holds no proportion unto the other. 'Tis too

late to be ambitious. The great mutations of the world are

acted, or time may be too short for our designs. To extend our

memories by monuments, whose death we daily pray for, and

whose duration we cannot hope, without injury to our expectations

in the advent of the last day, were a contradiction to our beliefs.

We, whose generations are ordained in this setting part of time,

are providentially taken off from such imaginations ; and, being

necessitated to eye the remaining particle of futurity, are naturally

constituted unto thoughts of the next world, and cannot excusably

decline the consideration of that duration, which maketh pyramids

pillars of snow, and all that's past a moment.

(From Urn Burial.)

SIR THOMAS BROWNE

331

IMAGINATION SWEETENS LIFE

Julius Scaliger, who in a sleepless fit of the gout could make two hundred verses in a night, would have but five plain words upon his tomb. And this serious person, though no minor wit, left the poetry of his epitaph unto others; either unwilling to commend himself or to be judged by a distich, and perhaps considering how unhappy great poets have been in versifying their own epitaphs: wherein Petrarca, Dante, and Ariosto, have so unhappily failed, that if their tombs should out-last their works, posterity would find so little of Apollo on them, as to mistake them for Ciceronian poets.

In this deliberate and creeping progress unto the grave, he was somewhat too young and of too noble a mind, to fall upon that stupid symptom observable in divers persons near their journey's end, and which may be reckoned among the mortal symptoms of their last disease; that is, to become more narrow minded, miserable, and tenacious, unready to part with any thing, when they are ready to part with all, and afraid to want when they have no time to spend; meanwhile physicians, who know that many are mad but in a single depraved imagination, and one prevalent decipiency; and that beside and out of such single deliriums a man may meet with sober actions and good sense in Bedlam; cannot but smile to see the heirs and concerned relations gratulating themselves on the sober departure of their friends; and though they behold such mad, covetous passages, content to think they die in good understanding, and in their sober senses.

Avarice, which is not only infidelity but idolatry, either from covetous progeny or questuary education, had no root in his breast, who made good works the expression of his faith, and was big with desires unto public and lasting charities; and surely where good wishes and charitable intentions exceed abilities, theoretical beneficency may be more than a dream. They build not castles in the air who would build churches on earth; and though they leave no such structures here, may lay good foundations in heaven. In brief, his life and death were such, that I could not blame them who wished the like, and almost to have been himself; almost I say; for though we may wish the prosperous appurtenances of others, or to be another in his happy accidents, yet so intrinsical is every man unto himself, that some doubt may be made, whether

any would exchange his being, or substantially become another man.

He had wisely scen the world at home and abroad, and thereby observed under what variety men are deluded in the pursuit of that which is not here to be found.

And although he had no opinion of reputed felicities below, and apprehended men widely out in the estimate of such happiness ; yet his sober contempt of the world wrought no Democritism or Cynicism, no laughing or snarling at it, as well understanding there are not felicities in this world to satisfy a serious mind ; and therefore, to soften the stream of our lives, we are fain to take in the reputed contentions of this world, to unite with the crowd in their beatitudes, and to make ourselves happy by consortion, opinion, or co-existimation :

for strictly to separate from received and customary felicities, and to confine unto the rigour of realities, were to contract the consolation of our beings unto too uncomfortable circumscriptions.

(From the Letter to a Friend.)

SOMETHING TO BE LOVED IN ALL

WHEN thou lookest upon the imperfections of others, allow one eye for what is laudable in them, and the balance they have from some excellency, which may render them considerable.

While we look with fear or hated upon the teeth of the viper, we may behold his eye with love.

In venomous natures something may be amiable : poisons afford antipoisons : nothing is totally, or altogether uselessly bad.

Notable virtues are sometimes dashed with notorious vices, and in some vicious tempers have been found illustrious acts of virtue ; which makes such observable worth in some actions of king Demetrius, Antonius, and Ahab, as are not to be found in the same kind in Aristides, Numa, or David.

Constancy, generosity, clemency, and liberality have been highly conspicuous in some persons not marked out in other concerns for example or imitation.

But since goodness is exemplary in all, if others have not our virtues, let us not be wanting in theirs ; nor scorning them for their vices whereof we are free, be condemned by their virtues wherein we are deficient.

There is dross, alloy, and embasement in all human tempers ; and he flieth without wings who thinks to find ophir or pure metal in any.

For

perfection is not, like light, centered in any one body ; but, like the dispersed seminalities of vegetables at the creation, scattered through the whole mass of the earth, no place producing all and almost all some. So that 'tis well, if a perfect man can be made out of many men, and, to the perfect eye of God, even out of mankind. Time, which perfects some things, imperfects also others. Could we intimately apprehend the ideated man, and as he stood in the intellect of God upon the first exertion by creation, we might more narrowly comprehend our present degeneration, and how widely we are fallen from the pure exemplar and idea of our nature : for after this corruptive elongation from a primitive and pure creation, we are almost lost in degeneration ; and Adam hath not only fallen from his Creator, but we ourselves from Adam our tycho and primary generator.

(From Christian Morals.)

WALK NOT WITH LEADEN SANDALS

Since thou hast an alarum in thy breast, which tells thee thou hast a living spirit in thee above two thousand times in an hour ; dull not away thy days in slothful supinity and the tediousness of doing nothing. To strenuous minds there is an inquietude in over quietness, and no laboriousness in labour ; and to tread a mill after the slow pace of the snail, or the heavy measures of the lazy of Brasilia, were a most tiring penance, and worse than a race of some furlongs at the Olympics. The rapid courses of the heavenly bodies are rather imitable by our thoughts, than our corporeat motions ; yet the solemn motions of our lives amount unto a greater measure than is commonly apprehended. Some few men have surrounded the globe of the earth ; yet many in the set locomotions and movements of their days have measured the circuit of it, and twenty thousand miles have been exceeded by them. Move circumspectly, not meticulously, and rather carefully solicitous, than anxiously solicitous. Think not there is a lion in the way, nor walk with leaden sandals in the paths of goodness ; but in all virtuous motions let prudence determine thy measures. Strive not to run like Hercules, a furlong in a breath : festination may prove precipitation ; deliberating delay may be wise cunctation, and slowness no slothfulness.

(From the Same.)

TEMPERANCE IN PLEASURE

Punish not thyself with pleasure ; glut not thy sense with palative delights ; nor revenge the contempt of temperance by the penalty of satiety. Were there an age of delight or any pleasure durable, who would not honour Volupia? but the race of delight is short, and pleasures have mutable faces. The pleasures of one age are not pleasures in another, and their lives fall short of our own.

Even in our sensual days, the strength of delight is in its seldomness or rarity, and sting in its satiety : mediocrity is its life, and immoderacy its confusion. The luxurious emperors of old incon siderately satiated themselves with the dainties of sea and land, till, wearied through all varieties, their refections became a study unto them, and they were fain to feed by invention : novices in true epicurism ! which, by mediocrity, paucity, quick and healthful appetite, makes delights smartly acceptable ; whereby Epicurus himself found Jupiter's brain in a piece of Cytherdian cheese, and the tongues of nightingales in a dish of onions. Hereby healthful and temperate poverty hath the start of nauseating luxury ; unto whose clear and naked appetite every meal is a feast, and in one single dish the first course of Metellus ; who are cheaply hungry and never lose their hunger, or advantage of a craving appetite, because obvious food contents it ; while Nero, half famished, could not feed upon a piece of bread, and, lingering after his snowed water, hardly got down an ordinary cup of Calda.

By such circumscriptions of pleasure the contemned philosophers reserved unto themselves the secret of delight, which the helluos of those days lost in their exorbitances. In vain we study delight ; it is at the command of every sober mind, and in every sense born with us ; but nature who teacheth us the rule of pleasure, instructeth also in the bounds thereof, and where its line expireth. And, therefore, temperate minds, not pressing their pleasures until the sting appeareth, enjoy their contentations contentedly, and without regret, and so escape the folly of excess, to be pleased unto displacency.

(From the Same.)

THE LIMITS OF FELICITY

Court not felicity too far, and weary not the favourable hand of fortune. Glorious actions have their times, extent, and non ultra.

To put no end unto attempts were to make prescription of successes, and to bespeak unhappiness at the last : for the line of our lives is drawn with white and black vicissitudes, wherein the extremes hold seldom one complexion. That Pompey should obtain the surname of great at twenty-five years, that men in their young and active days should be fortunate and perform notable things, is no observation of deep wonder ; they having the strength of their fates before them, nor yet acted their parts in the world for which they were brought into it ; whereas men of years, matured for counsels and designs, seem to be beyond the vigour of their active fortunes, and high exploits of life, providentially ordained unto ages best agreeable unto them. And, therefore, many brave men finding their fortune grow faint, and feeling its declination, have timely withdrawn themselves from great attempts, and so escaped the ends of mighty men, disproportionable to their beginnings. But magnanimous thoughts have so dimmed the eyes of many, that forgetting the very essence of fortune, and the vicissitude of good and evil, they apprehend no bottom in felicity ; and so have been still tempted on unto mighty actions, reserved for their destructions. For fortune lays the plot of our adversities in the foundation of our felicities, blessing us in the first quadrate, to blast us more sharply in the last. And since in the highest felicities there lieth a capacity of the lowest miseries, she hath this advantage from our happiness to make us truly miserable : for to become acutely miserable we are to be first happy. Affliction smarts most in the most happy state, as having somewhat in it of Belisarius at beggar's bush, or Bajazet in the grate. And this the fallen angels severely understand ; who have acted their first part in heaven, are made sharply miserable by transition, and more afflictively feel the contrary state of hell.

(From the Same.)

UN-MAN NOT THYSELF

LIVE unto the dignity of thy nature, and leave it not disputable at last, whether thou hast been a man ; or, since thou art a composition of man and beast, how thou hast predominantly passed thy days, to state the denomination. Un-man not, therefore thyself by a bestial transformation, nor realise old fables. Ex-

pose not thyself by four-footed manners unto monstrous draughts, and caricature representations. Think not after the old Pythagorean conceit, what beast thou may'st be after death. Be not under any brutal metempsychosis, while thou livest and walkest about erectly under the scheme of man. In thine own circumference, as in that of the earth, let the rational horizon be larger than the sensible, and the circle of reason than of sense : let the divine part be upward, and the region of beast below ; otherwise, 'tis but to live invertedly, and with thy head unto the heels of thy antipodes. Desert not thy title to a divine particle and union with invisibles. Let true knowledge and virtue tell the lower world thou art a part of the higher. Let thy thoughts be of things which have not entered into the hearts of beasts : think of things long past, and long to come : acquaint thyself with the choragium of the stars, and consider the vast expansion beyond them. Let intellectual tubes give thee a glance of things which visive organs reach not. Have a glimpse of incomprehensibles ; and thoughts of things, which thoughts but tenderly touch. Lodge immaterials in thy head ; ascend unto invisibles ; fill thy spirit with spirituals, with the mysteries of faith, the magnalities of religion, and thy life with the honour of God ; without which, though giants in wealth and dignity, we are but dwarfs and pygmies in humanity, and may hold a pitiful rank in that triple division of mankind into heroes, men, and beasts. For though human souls are said to be equal, yet is there no small inequality in their operations ; some maintain the allowable station of men ; many are far below it ; and some have been so divine, as to approach the apogeum of their natures, and to be in the confinium of spirits.

Behold thyself by inward opticks and the crystalline of thy soul. Strange it is that in the most perfect sense there should be so many fallacies, that we are fain to make a doctrine, and often to see by art. But the greatest imperfection is in our inward sight, that is, to be ghosts unto our own eyes ; and while we are sharp-sighted as to look through others, to be invisible unto ourselves ; for the inward eyes are more fallacious than the outward. The vices we scoff at in others, laugh at us within ourselves. Avarice, pride, falsehood lie undiscerning and blindly in us, even to the age of blindness ; and, therefore, to see ourselves interiorly, we are fain to borrow other men's eyes ; wherein true friends are good informers, and censurers no bad friends. Con-

science only, that can see without light, sits in the areopagy and dark tribunal of our hearts, surveying our thoughts and condemning their obliquities. Happy is that state of vision that can see without light, though all should look as before the creation, when there was not an eye to see, or light to actuate a vision : notwithstanding, obscurity is only imaginable respectively unto eyes ; for unto God there was none : eternal light was ever ; created light was for the creation, not Himself ; and, as He saw before the sun, may still also see without it. In the city of the new Jerusalem there is neither sun nor moon ; where glorified eyes must see by the archetypal sun, or the light of God, able to illuminate intellectual eyes, and make unknown visions. Intuitive perceptions in spiritual beings may, perhaps, hold some analogy unto vision : but yet how they see us, or one another, what eye, what light, or what perception is required unto their intuition, is yet dark unto our apprehension ; and even how they see God, or how unto our glorified eyes the beatifical vision will be celebrated, another world must tell us, when perceptions will be new, and we may hope to behold invisibles.

(From the Same.)

IZAAK WALTON

[Izaak Walton was born at Stafford in August 1593. He came eârly up to London, and took a shop in Cornhill. In 1617-18 he was made one of the Ironmongers' Company. In 1624 we find him a linen-draper in Fleet Street, near Chancery Lane, and in 1630 he bought a house in the latter thoroughfare. He possessed many noble and clerical friends, whose acquaintance he sedulously cultivated. To the LXXX Sermons of Dr. Donne he prefixed in 1640 his Life of that worthy. His Life of Sir Henry Wotton appeared in the same year. During the Civil War he retired to Stafford. His Complete Angler made its first appearance in 1653. He published the Life of Hooker in 1662 ; the Life of George Herbert in 1670 in a first complete edition of the four Lives; the Life of Sanderson followed in 1678 ; and, possibly, a work called Love and Truth in 1680. He spent the close of his career in the house of his son-in-law, Prebendary Hawkins, in Winchester, where he died in his ninety-first year on the 15th day of December 1683, and was buried in Winchester Cathedral.]

Izaak Walton closes his most celebrated work with the words, "Study to be quiet." This is the fit colophon to his literary achievement. His work as an author and as a man is summed up in the phrase. Born to stirring times, it was his fortune to live into times that were more than stirring—times that were turbulent, resonant, vociferous. He loved peaceful chatting with gracious elderly persons about pastoral and meditative themes. He liked to walk by still waters, through quiet, dreamy meadows. But it was his fate to find the civic stillness which he delighted in broken up by arms and onsets, and to see the sword of Civil War vambrashed from one end of England to the other. These conditions did not change the current of his style; they only forced it to dig a deeper channel, and so helped to develop that delicate and pensive product which is the prose of Izaak Walton.

It would have greatly surprised and scandalised the author of the Complete Angler to have been told that in two centuries' time everybody would still be reading him, when only scholars continued to turn the pages of his magnificent friend, Dr. Donne.

How clear and strong, in spite of its modesty, was the individuality of Walton is shown by the fact that his unbounded admiration of Donne as a preacher and a theological essayist has in no way affected his own manner of writing. After the brutality of so much of Elizabethan prose, especially of the lighter sort, the note of most sweet amenity comes to us refreshingly in Walton.

But it does not appear that it was audible to his own contemporaries. He was hardly considered until the eighteenth century as a writer at all, but only as the purveyor of certain interesting and accurate professional observations. In his youth Greene and Nash had been read, and there still remained a tradition that a certain violence was requisite to garnish prose of the entertaining variety.

Perhaps the very qualities which we delight in in Walton —the extraordinary simplicity and lucidity—seemed undignified to the stately taste of the seventeenth century.

The prose of Walton is very original in character. In his use of the dialogue form he may have owed something to the graceful pastoral pamphlets of Nicholas Breton.

Perhaps he had admired the essays of the unfortunate Sir Thomas Overbury. In all essential respects, however, his pleasant amalgam of science and poetry, of learning and experience, appears to be an invention of his own.

His discourse “seems to be music, and charms us to an attention.” The curious disease of Euphuism is seen to be quite cured by the time we reach Walton ; not a trace of it is left in him, though it was to be met with long afterwards in writers of far greater pretension.

His vocabulary is very modern. Sometimes the easy nature of the style betrays it into incorrectness, but even this is modern.

When Walton is roused by some exciting topic, whether it be “the lost credit of the poor despised chubb,” or the desirability of drinking “a civil cup to all otter-hunters,” he is often startlingly felicitous.

We feel inclined to say to him, as Venator did to Piscator, “Ay, marry, sir ! now you talk like an artist.”

The famous milkmaid passage, which we quote among our selections, is perhaps the most admirable which Walton has left us.

It is introduced abruptly, yet not without art ; it is evident that the gentle author perceived the patch to be a purple one.

All the little side-pictures which are introduced in this portion of the Complete Angler are wonderfully graphic.

The otter-hunt is as picturesque as any of our modern naturalists could make it. Yet perhaps the best example of sustained felicity in Walton is

the long Lucianic dispute between Piscator, Venator, and Auceps,

each extolling his trade. There is something Greek in the

simplicity and extreme naturalness of this triologue, in which air,

earth, and water seem contending in the gallant persons of the

Falconer, the Fox-Hunter, and the Fisherman. It seems a pity

that Walton wrote so little in this broad and philosophic manner,

celebrating the arts of active life and the ideals of the sportsman

with blossoming hawthorn for a background, and the lark and

throstle for an orchestra.

A certain happy strain in English prose may be said to start

with Izaak Walton. Of the same stock have followed Sterne and

Lamb and Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson. These are the delicate

moralists that make a flute of our language, and pipe to us in a

mode that is “free and pleasant and civilly merry” so artlessly

that we are in danger of forgetting that it is the very consummation

of art. The humour of Walton is charming. We can

imagine Charles Lamb gravely inquiring, “How could Cleopatra

have feasted Mark Antony with eight wild boars roasted whole

at one supper if the earth had not been a bountiful mother?”

No one before him had just this turn of phrase, this playful

archness, and we conceive his fun to have trotted about quite unnoticed

between the legs of the elephantine Jacobean facetiousness.

It is to be noted too, as a point which links him more with the

later humourists of our country, that his sentences are often

admirably terse, and that he was disengaged from those coils of

verbiage in which his contemporaries writhed like Laocoons.

As a biographer, again, Walton was an innovator. The five

short lives which he published, though pale by the side of such

work in biography as the end of the eighteenth century introduced,

are yet notable as among the earliest which aim at giving us a

vivid portrait of the man, instead of a discreet and conventional

testimonial. It is to Walton, too, that we owe the idea of illustrating

and developing biography by means of correspondence.

Without doubt his incorrigible optimism entered into his study of

the character of his friends, and it is no part of his inexperience

as a portrait-painter that he mixes his colours with so much

rose-water. He saw his distinguished acquaintances in that

light; he saw them pure, radiant, and stately beyond a mortal

guise, and he could not be true to himself unless he gave them

the superhuman graces at which we may now smile a little. We

sometimes feel that the stiffness of the biographical portrait is

irksome to him. But here, as elsewhere, the artist is true to himself. Between the production of his Life of Donne and his Life of Sanderson nearly forty years clapsed, and prose style had in the meantime undergone extraordinary changes. But Walton is unchanged, the same graceful loquacity, the same limpid and serious swectness, the same distinguished presentation of experience, mark the first biography and the latest. He is not seen quite so often at his best in the Lives as in the Complete Angler, where he may weave into his composition as many verses and as much music, as many flowers and as much fancy, as his heart desires,

Edmund Gosse.

WHAT WE OWE TO THE BIRDS

NAY, more, the very birds of the air, those that be not hawks, are both so many and so useful and pleasant to mankind, that I must not let them pass without some observations; they both feed and refresh him—feed him with their choice bodies, and refresh him with their heavenly voices. I will not undertake to mention the several kinds of fowl by which this is done, and his curious palate pleased by day, and which with their very excrements afford him a soft lodging at night. These I will pass by, but not those little nimble musicians of the air, that warble forth their curious ditties with which Nature has furnished them to the shame of art.

At first the lark, when she means to rejoice, to cheer herself and those that hear her, she then quits the earth and sings as she ascends higher into the air; and, having ended her heavenly employment, grows then mute and sad to think she must descend to the dull earth, which she would not touch but for necessity.

How do the blackbird and thrasel with their melodious voices bid welcome to the cheerful spring, and in their fixed months warble forth such ditties as no art or instrument can reach to!

Nay, the smaller birds also do the like in their particular seasons, as namely the laverock, the titlark, the little linnet, and the honest robin, that loves mankind both alive and dead.

But the nightingale, another of my airy creatures, breathes such sweet loud music out of her little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased. He that at midnight, when the very labourer sleeps securely, should hear, as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, “Lord, what music hast Thou provided for the saints in heaven, when Thou afforddest bad men such music on earth?”

(From The Complete Angler.)

ANGLING AN ART

Piscator. Well, now, Mr. Venator, you shall neither want time nor my attention to hear you enlarge your discourse concerning hunting.

Venator. Not I, sir. I remember you said that angling itself was of great antiquity, and a perfect art, and an art not easily attained to; and you have so won upon me in your former discourse, that I am very desirous to hear what you can say further concerning those particulars.

Pisc. Sir, I did say so, and I doubt not but if you and I did converse together but a few hours, to leave you possessed with the same high and happy thoughts that now possess me of it ; not only of the antiquity of angling, but that it deserves commendations, and that it is an art, and an art worthy the knowledge and practice of a wise man.

Ven. Pray, sir, speak of them what you think fit, for we have yet five miles to the Thatched House, during which walk I dare promise you my patience, and diligent attention shall not be wanting. And if you shall make that to appear which you have undertaken ; first, that it is an art, and an art worth the learning, I shall beg that I may attend you a day or two a-fishing, and that I may become your scholar, and be instructed in the art itself which you so much magnify.

Pisc. O sir, doubt not but that angling is an art. Is it not an art to deceive a trout with an artificial fly? a trout that is more sharp-sighted than any hawk you have named, and more watchful and timorous than your high-mettled merlin is bold ! and yet I doubt not to catch a brace or two to-morrow for a friend's breakfast. Doubt not, therefore, sir, but that angling is an art, and an art worth your learning ; the question is rather, whether you be capable of learning it? for angling is somewhat like poetry, men are to be born so—I mean with inclinations to it, though both may be heightened by discourse and practice ; but he that hopes to be a good angler must not only bring an inquiring, searching, observing wit, but he must bring a large measure of hope and patience, and a love and propensity to the art itself ; but having once got and practised it, then doubt not but angling will prove to be so pleasant that it will prove to be like virtue, a reward to itself.

(From the Same.)

IZAAK WALTON

345

THE OTTER HUNT

Venator. My friend Piscator, you have kept time with my

thoughts ; for the sun is just rising, and I myself just now come

to this place, and the dogs have just now put down an Otter.

Look down at the bottom of the hill there in what meadow,

checkered with water-lilies and lady-smocks ; there you may see

what work they make. Look ! Look ! you may see all busy,

men and dogs, dogs and men, all busy.

Piscator. Sir, I am right glad to meet you, and glad to have

so fair an entrance into this day's sport, and glad to see so many

dogs and more men all in pursuit of the Otter. Let's compliment

no longer, but join unto them. Come, honest Venator, let's be

gone, let us make haste; I long to be doing: no reasonable

hedge or ditch shall hold me.

Ven. Gentleman, Huntsman, where found you this Otter ?

Huntsman. Marry, Sir, we found her a mile from this place,

a-fishing ; she has this morning eaten the greatest part of this

trout ; she has only left thus much of it, as you see, and was

fishing for more. When we came, we found her just at it ; but

we were here very early, we were here an hour before sunrise, and

have given her no rest since we came ; sure she will hardly

escape all these dogs and men. I am to have the skin if we kill

her.

Ven. Why, Sir, what's the skin worth ?

Hunt. 'Tis worth ten shillings to make gloves ; the gloves of

an Otter are the best fortification for your hands that can be

thought on against wet weather.

Pisc. I pray, honest Huntsman, let me ask you a pleasant

question : Do you hunt a beast or a fish ?

Hunt. Sir, it is not in my power to resolve you. I leave it

to be resolved by the College of Carthusians, who have made

vows never to eat flesh. But I have heard the question hath

been debated among many great clerks, and they seem to differ

about it ; yet most agree that her tail is fish : and if her body be

fish too, then I may say that a fish will walk upon land, for an

Otter does so sometimes five, or six, or ten miles in a night, to

catch for her young ones, or to glut herself with fish, and I can

tell you that pigeons will fly forty miles for a breakfast ; but, Sir,

I am sure the Otter devours much fish, and kills and spoils much

more than he eats : and I can tell you that this Dog-fisher, for

so the Latins call him, can smell a fish in the water an hundred

yards from him : Gesner says much farther ; and that there is an

herb, Benione, which being hung in a linen-cloth near a fish-pond,

or any haunt that he uses, makes him to avoid the place ; which

proves he smells both by water and land. And I can tell you

there is brave hunting this water-dog in Cornwall ; where there

have been so many, that our learned Camden says there is a river

called Ottersey, which was so named by reason of the abundance

of Otters that bred and fed in it.

(From the Same.)

THE MILKMAID'S SONG

Piscator. Nay, stay a little, good Scholar ; I caught my last

Trout with a worm ; now I will put on a minnow and try a

quarter of an hour about yonder trees for another, and so walk

towards our lodging. Look you, Scholar, thereabout we shall

have a bite presently, or not at all. Have with you, Sir ! o’ my

word, I have hold of him. Oh ! it is a great logger-headed

Chub ; come, hang him upon that willow-twig, and let's be going.

But turn out of the way a little, good Scholar, towards yonder

high honeysuckle hedge ; there we'll sit and sing whilst this

shower falls so gently upon the teeming earth, and gives yet a

sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that adorn these verdant

meadows.

Look, under that broad beech-tree I sat down, when I was

last this way a-fishing, and the birds in the adjoining grove

seemed to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead

voice seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to the brow of that

primrose hill ; there I sat viewing the silver streams glide silently

towards their centre, the tempestuous sea ; yet sometimes opposed

by rugged roots, and pebble-stones, which broke their waves, and

turned them into foam : and sometimes I beguiled time by viewing

the harmless lambs, some leaping securely in the cool shade,

whilst others sported themselves in the cheerful sun ; and saw

others craving comfort from the swollen udders of their bleating

dams. As I thus sat, these and other sights had so fully

possessed my soul with content, that I thought, as the poet has

happily expressed it,

"I was for that time lifted above earth,

And possessed joys not promised in my birth."

As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second

pleasure entertained me; 'twas a handsome Milkmaid that had

not yet attained so much age and wisdom as to load her mind

with any fears of many things that will never be, as too many

men too often do; but she cast away all care, and sung like a

nightingale. Her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it;

'twas that smooth song, which was made by Kit Marlowe, now at

least fifty years ago: and the Milkmaid's mother sung an answer

to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger

days.

They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good, I think

much better than the strong lines that are now in fashion in this

critical age. Look yonder! on my word, yonder they both be

a-milking again. I will give her the Chub, and persuade them

to sing those two songs to us.

God speed you, good woman! I have been a-fishing, and am

going to Bleak Hall to my bed; and having caught more fish

than will sup myself and my friend, I will bestow this upon you

and your daughter, for I use to sell none.

Milk-Woman. Marry, God requite you! Sir, and we'll eat

it cheerfully; and if you come this way a-fishing two months

hence, a-grace of God I'll give you a syllabub of new verjuice in a

new-made hay-cock for it, and my Maudlin shall sing you one of

her best ballads; for she and I both love all Anglers, they be

such honest, civil, quiet men. In the mean time will you drink

a draught of red cow's milk? you shall have it freely.

Pisc. No, I thank you; but I pray do us a courtesy that

shall stand you and your daughter in nothing, and yet we will

think ourselves still something in your debt: it is but to sing us

a song that was sung by your daughter when I last passed over

this meadow, about eight or nine days since.

Milk-W. What song was it, I pray? Was it "Come, Shep-

herds, deck your herds?" or, "As at noon Dulcina rested?" or

"Philida flouts me?" or Chevy Chace? or Johnny Armstrong?

or Troy Town?

Pisc. No, it is none of those: it is a song that your daughter

sung the first part, and you sung the answer to it.

Milk-W. Oh, I know it now; I learned the first part in my

golden age, when I was about the age of my poor daughter; and

the latter part, which indeed fits me best now, but two or threc

yeárs ago, when the cares of the world began to take hold of me;

but you shall, God willing, hear them both, and sung as well as

we can, for we both love Anglers. Come, Maudlin, sing the first

part to the gentlemen with a merry heart; and I'll sing the scccond,

when you have done.

(From the Same.)

THE BLESSING OF CONTENT

Venutor. Well sung, master! This day's fortune and pleasure,

and this night's company and song, do all make me more and

more in love with angling. Gentlemen, my master left me alone

for an hour this day, and I verily believe he retired himself from

talking with me, that he might be so perfect in this song; was it

not, master?

Piscator. Yes, indeed, for it is many years since I learned it,

and having forgotten a part of it, I was forced to patch it up by the

help of mine own invention, who am not excellent at poetry, as

my part of the song may testify; but of that I will say no more,

lest you should think I mean by discommending it to beg your

commendations of it. And therefore, without replications, let's

hear your catch, scholar, which I hope will be a good one, for

you are both musical and have a good fancy to boot.

Ven. Marry, and that you shall, and as freely as I would have

my honest master tell me some more secrets of fish and fishing

as we walk and fish towards London to-morrow. But, master, first

let me tell you that, that very hour which you were absent from me,

I sat down under a willow-tree by the water-side, and considered

what you had told me of the owner of that pleasant meadow in

which you then left me; that he had a plentiful estate, and not a

heart to think so; that he had at this time many lawsuits depend-

ing, and that they both damped his mirth, and took up so much

of his time and thoughts, that he himself had not leisure to take

the sweet content that I, who pretended no title to them, took in

his fields; for I could there sit quietly, and, looking on the water,

see some fishes sport themselves in the silver streams, others

leaping at flics of several shapes and colours; looking on the hills

I could behold them spotted with woods and groves; looking

down the meadows, could see here a boy gathering lilies and lady-

smocks, and there a girl cropping culverkeyes and cowslips, all to make garlands suitable to this present month of May. These, and many other field-flowers, so perfumed the air, that I thought that very meadow like that field in Sicily, of which Diodorus speaks, where the perfumes arising from the place make all dogs that hunt in it to fall off, and to lose their hottest scent. I say, as I thus sat, joying in my own happy condition, and pitying this poor rich man that owned this and many other pleasant groves and meadows about me, I did thankfully remember what my Saviour said, that the meek possess the earth—or rather, they enjoy what the other possess and enjoy not; for anglers, and meek, quiet-spirited men, are free from those high, those restless thoughts which corrode the sweets of life; and they, and they only, can say, as the poet has happily expressed it—

" Hail ! blest estate of lowliness ! Happy enjoyments of such minds, As, rich in self-contentedness, Can, like the reeds in roughest winds, By yielding make that blow but small At which proud oaks and cedars fall." (From the Same.)

A VISION

At this time of Mr. Donne's and his wife's living in Sir Robert's house, the Lord Hay was, by King James, sent upon a glorious embassy to the then French king, Henry the Fourth, and Sir Robert put on a sudden resolution to accompany him to the French Court, and to be present at his audience there. And Sir Robert put on a sudden resolution to solicit Mr. Donne to be his companion in that journey. And this desire was suddenly made known to his wife, who was then with child, and otherwise under so dangerous a habit of body as to her health, that she professed an unwillingness to allow him any absence from her, saying, " Her divining soul boded her some ill in his absence," and therefore desired him not to leave her. This made Mr. Donne lay aside all thoughts of the journey, and really to resolve against it. But Sir Robert became restless in his persuasions for it, and Mr. Donne was so generous as to think he had sold his liberty, when he received so many charitable kindnesses from him, and told his

wife so ; who did therefore, with an unwilling-willingness, give a faint consent to the journey, which was proposed to be but for two months ; for about that time they determined their return. Within a few days after this resolve, the ambassador, Sir Robert, and Mr. Donne, left London, and were the twelfth day got all safe to Paris. Two days after their arrival there, Mr. Donne was left alone in that room in which Sir Robert and he and some other friends had dined together. To this place Sir Robert returned within half an hour ; and as he left, so he found, Mr. Donne alone, but in such an ecstasy, and so altered as to his looks, as amazed Sir Robert to behold him, insomuch that he earnestly desired Mr. Donne to declare what had befallen him in the short time of his absence. To which Mr. Donne was not able to make a present answer ; but, after a long and perplexed pause, did at last say, " I have seen a dreadful vision since I saw you. I have seen my dear wife pass twice by me through this room, with her hair hanging about her shoulders, and a dead child in her arms ; this I have seen since I saw you." To which Sir Robert replied, " Sure, sir, you have slept since I saw you ; and this is the result of some melancholy dream, which I desire you to forget, for you are now awake." To which Mr. Donne's reply was, " I cannot be surer that I now live than that I have not slept since I saw you ; and am as sure, that at her second appearing, she stopped, and looked me in the face, and vanished." Rest and sleep had not altered Mr. Donne's opinion the next day, for he then affirmed this vision with a more deliberate, and so confirmed a confidence that he inclined Sir Robert to a faint belief that the vision was true. It is truly said that desire and doubt have no rest, and it proved so with Sir Robert ; for he immediately sent a servant to Drewry House, with a charge to hasten back, and bring him word whether Mrs. Donne were alive, and, if alive, in what condition she was as to her health. The twelfth day the messenger returned with this account—that he found and left Mrs. Donne very sad and sick in her bed, and that, after a long and dangerous labour, she had been delivered of a dead child. And, upon examination, the abortion proved to be the same day, and about the very hour, that Mr. Donne affirmed he saw her pass by him in his chamber.

(From the Lives.)

GEORGE HERBERT AT BEMERTON

IT was not many days before he returned back to Bemerton to view the church, and repair the chancel, and indeed to rebuild almost three parts of his house which was fallen down or decayed by reason of his predecessor's living at a better parsonage house, namely, at Minal, sixteen or twenty miles from this place.

At which time of Mr. Herbert's coming alone to Bemerton, there came to him a poor old woman, with an intent to acquaint him with her necessitous condition, as also with some troubles of her mind; but after she had spoken some few words to him, she was surprised with a fear, and that begot a shortness of breath, so that her spirits and speech failed her; which he perceiving, did so compassionate her, and was so humble, that he took her by the hand, and said, "Speak, good mother, be not afraid to speak to me, for I am a man that will hear you with patience, and will relieve your necessities too, if I be able, and this I will do willingly; and therefore, mother, be not afraid to acquaint me with what you desire."

After which comfortable speech, he again took her by the hand, made her sit down by him, and understanding she was of his parish he told her "He would be acquainted with her and take her into his care."

And having with patience heard and understood her wants—and it is some relief for a poor body to be heard with patience—he, like a Christian clergyman, comforted her by his meek behaviour and counsel; but because that cost him nothing, he relieved her with money too, and so sent her home with a cheerful heart, praising God and praying for him.

Thus worthy, and, like David's blessed man, thus lowly, was Mr. George Herbert in his own eyes, and thus lovely in the eyes of others.

At his return that night to his wife at Bainton, he gave her an account of the passages betwixt him and the poor woman; with which she was so affected, that she went next day to Salisbury, and there bought a pair of blankets, and sent them as a token of her love to the poor woman; and with them a message, "That she would see and be acquainted with her when her house was built at Bemerton."

(From the Same.)

352

ENGLISH PROSE

DR. SANDERSON AT BOOTHBY PANNEL

AND this excellent man did not think his duty discharged by

only reading the Church prayers, catechising, preaching, and

administering the sacraments seasonably; but thought—if the

law or the canons may seem to enjoin no more, yet—that God

would require more than the defective laws of man's making can

or do enjoin; the performance of that inward law, which Almighty

God hath imprinted in the conscience of all good Christians,

and inclines those whom He loves to perform. He, considering

this, did therefore become a law to himself, practising what his

conscience told him was his duty, in reconciling differences, and

preventing lawsuits, both in his parish and in the neighbourhood.

To which may be added his often visiting sick and disconsolate

families, persuading them to patience, and raising them from

dejection by his advice and cheerful discourse, and by adding

his own alms, if there were any so poor as to need it: considering

how acceptable it is to Almighty God, when we do as we are

advised by St. Paul, Gal. vi. 2, “Help to bear one another's

burden,” either of sorrow or want; and what a comfort it will be,

when the Searcher of all hearts shall call us to a strict account

for that evil we have done, and the good we have omitted, to

remember we have comforted and been helpful to a dejected or

distressed family.

And that his practice was to do good, one example may be,

that he met with a poor dejected neighbour, that complained he

had taken a meadow, the rent of which was £9 a year; and when

the hay was made ready to be carried into his barn, several day's

constant rain had so raised the water, that a sudden flood carried

all away, and his rich landlord would bate him no rent; and that

unless he had half abated, he and seven children were utterly

undone. It may be noted, that in this age there are a sort of

people so unlike the God of Mercy, so void of the bowels of pity,

that they love only themselves and children: love them so, as

not to be concerned, whether the rest of mankind waste their

days in sorrow or shame: people that are cursed with riches,

and a mistake that nothing but riches can make them and theirs

happy. But it was not so with Dr. Sanderson: for he was

concerned, and spoke comfortably to the poor dejected man: bade

him go home and pray, and not load himself with sorrow, for he

would go to his landlord next morning: and if his landlord would

not abate what he desired, he and a friend would pay it for

him.

To the landlord he went the next day, and, in a conference,

the Doctor presented to him the sad conditions of his poor

dejected tenant; telling him how much God is pleased when men

compassionate the poor; and told him, that though God loves

sacrifice, yet he loves mercy so much better, that He is best

pleased when called the God of Mercy. And told him the riches he

was possessed of were given him by that God of Mercy, who

would not be pleased, if he, that had so much given, yea, and

forgiven him too, should prove like the rich steward in the

gospel, "that took his fellow servant by the throat to make him

pay the utmost farthing." This he told him: and told him, that

the law of this nation—by which law he claims his rent—does not

undertake to make men honest or merciful; but does what it can

to restrain men from being dishonest or unmerciful, and yet was

defective in both; and that taking any rent from his poor tenant,

for what God suffered him not to enjoy, though the law allowed

him to do so, yet if he did so, he was too like that rich

steward which he had mentioned to him; and told him that riches

so gotten, and added to his great estate, would, as Job says,

"prove like gravel in his teeth": would in time so corrode his

conscience, or become so nauseous when he lay upon his

death-bed, that he would then labour to vomit it up, and not be

able; and therefore advised him, being very rich, to make friends

of his unrighteous Mammon, before that evil day come upon him:

but however, neither for his own sake, nor for God's sake, to

take any rent of his poor, dejected, sad tenant; for that were

to gain a temporal, and lose his eternal happiness. These, and

other such reasons were urged with so grave and compassionate

an earnestness, that the landlord forgave his tenant the whole

rent.

The reader will easily believe that Dr. Sanderson, who was so

meek and merciful, did suddenly and gladly carry this comfortable

news to the dejected tenant: and will believe that at the telling

of it there was a mutual rejoicing. It was one of Job's boasts

that "he had seen none perish for want of clothing: and that he

had often made the heart of the widow to rejoice," Job xxxi. 19.

And doubtless Dr. Sanderson might have made

VOL. II

2 A

the same religious boast of this and very many like occasions. But, since he did not, I rejoice that I have this just occasion to do it for him ; and that I can tell the reader, I might tire myself and him, in telling how like the whole course of Dr. Sanderson's life, was to this which I have now related.

(From the Same.)

MRS. HUTCHINSON

[Lucy, daughter of Sir Allen Apsley, lieutenant of the Tower, married (July 1638) Mr. John Hutchinson of Owthorpe in the county of Nottingham. Her Life of Colonel Hutchinson was published first in 1806 ; there are several later editions. In Mr. C. H. Firth's edition there are a number of additional documents. Two theological essays by Mrs. Hutchinson were published in 1817 : (1) "On the Principles of the Christian Religion" (addressed to her daughter) ; (2) "Of Theologie" (incomplete : the first part is a clear and orderly discussion of natural theology ; the second part, beginning with the " pure antediluvian theology," comes down no further than the birth of the giants). Mrs. Hutchinson's MS. translation of Lucretius, in couplets, is in the British Museum.]

In all Mrs. Hutchinson's writings there is a struggle between two opposite tendencies--one having its source in her natural and ingenuous strength of mind ; the other in her education and adopted principles. It would be easy, by making unfair selections from her works, to compose a picture of unamiable virtue and female pedantry. This would be unjust; at the same time, it cannot be denied that she gives the materials for such a description of her character, as well as the complementary evidence, which proves that she was something more than a bookish woman with strict principles. The fragment of her autobiography contains what deserves to be the locus classicus on the topic of early piety :-

"Play among other children I despised, and when I was forced to entertain such as came to visit me, I tired them with more grave instructions than their mothers, and plucked all their babies to pieces, and kept the children in such awe, that they were glad when I entertained myself with older company ; to whom I was very acceptable, and being in the house with many persons that had a great deal of wit, and very profitable serious discourses being frequent at my father's table and in my mother's drawing-room, I was very attentive to all, and gathered up things

that I would utter again, to great admiration of many that took my memory and imitation for wit. . . . I used to exhort my mother's maids much, and to turn their idle discourses to good subjects; but I thought when I had done this on the Lord's day, and every day performed my due tasks of reading and praying, that then I was free to anything that was not sin; for I was not at that time convinced of the vanity of conversation which was not scandalously wicked. I thought it no sin to learn or hear witty songs and amorous sonnets or poems, and twenty things of that kind, wherein I was so apt that I became the confidante in all the loves that were managed among my mother's young women; and there was none of them but had many lovers, and some particular friends beloved above the rest."

If this passage is to be treasured as a description of a good child, the last sentence must be abandoned. For an estimate of the character of Mrs. Hutchinson, this last sentence is valuable. It is in this way that she makes it impossible for the reader to regard her as an abstract virtue, or one of the Puritan graces. Her quickness of understanding and her energy preserve her from these extremes of perfection.

Mrs. Hutchinson was not a mere learned woman, though it might be possible to collect out of her two theological essays and her apology for her translation of Lucretius evidence enough to justify such an opinion of her. Her account of her study of Lucretius is a companion piece to the account of her childhood. She has become, she says, convinced of the sin of amusing herself with such vain philosophy, "which even at the first I did not employ any serious study in, for I turned it into English in a room where my children practised the several qualities they were taught with their tutors, and I numbered the syllables of my translation by the threads of the canvas I wrought in, and set them down with a pen and ink that stood by me." She goes on to treat her poet with much severity for "his and his master's ridiculous, impious, execrable doctrines," "the foppish, casual dance of atoms." Her discourse on natural theology is full of references to the heathen poets and philosophers, without much respect for any of them. It is open to any one to describe her as a woman disagreeably and vainly learned, without any appreciation of her classical authors except in so far as they can be used to humiliate the ignorant, and make them uncomfortable. This view, again, would be an unfair one. It is possible to admire

the picture of Mrs. Hutchinson taking Lucretius along with her

tambour in the children's schoolroom, and at the same time to

recognise that her learning is often better employed than in this

translation, and that her liking for pens and ink is justified by

the freshness and liveliness of her style.

Mrs. Hutchinson's style is not remarkable for anything except

this natural vigour, and this is to be found in her theological

essays as well as in the life of her husband. She wrote because

she had something to say. The life of her husband is more

interesting than her theology, but her theological discourses are

in their way equally spontaneous.

The Life of Colonel Hutchinson is not one of the biographies

that excel in the art of making small things interesting.

But the narrative does not leave hold of particulars. Situations and

adventures are often represented in a summary way, but though

Mrs. Hutchinson may renounce the picturesque details, she gives

the essential parts of the drama. Instances of this may easily

be found. The best is the passage that relates how Lambert's

troopers, trying to bully Colonel Hutchinson in his own house at

Owthorpe, were quieted by suddenly coming upon fifty or sixty

men, who happened to be there that day as representatives of

three parishes which had quarrelled over a pauper (ii. p. 230).

This is not treated as a great narrative author would have

given it; but the important things are there, the incident is

boldly and clearly recounted.

That part of the Life which refers to Cromwell is less satisfac-

tory. That "the colonel saw through him" is Mrs. Hutchinson's

opinion; but the conversations between Cromwell and Hutchinson,

in which Hutchinson rebuked ambition and was answered by

"serious, lying professions," are not fully reported. This part

of the story lay beyond Mrs. Hutchinson's own view, and Cromwell

is not seen distinctly in the indirect report of his ambition

and "dissimulations."

W. P. KER,

LAMBERT, 1659

THE colonel having set things in order in the couniry, had an intent to have carried his family that winter with him to London; when just that week he was going, news was brought that Lambert had once more turned out the parliament, and the colonel rejoiced in his good fortune that he was not present.

Lambert was exceedingly puffed up with his cheap victory, and cajoled his soldiers; and, before he returned to London, set on foot among them their old insolent way of prescribing to the parliament by way of petition.

The parliament, after the submission of the army, had voted that there should be no more be a general over them, but, to keep that power in their own hands, that all the officers should take their commissions immediately from the Speaker. The conspiracy of the army, to get a leader in their rebellion, was laid, that they should petition for generals and such like things as might facilitate their intents.

Among others that were taken in arms against the parliament, Lord Castleton was one of the chief heads of the insurrection. Him Lambert brought along with him in his coach, not now as a prisoner, but unguarded, as one that was to be honoured. The parliament hearing of this, sent and fetched him out of his company and committed him to prison, and then the army's saucy petition was delivered, and, upon the insolent carriage of nine colonels they were by vote disbanded.

Lambert being one of them, came in a hostile manner and plucked the members out of the house; Fleetwood, whom they trusted to guard them, having confederated with Lambert and betrayed them. After that, setting up their army court at Wallingford-house, they began their arbitrary reign, to the joy of all the vanquished enemies of the parliament, and to the amazement and terror of all men that had any honest interest: and now were they all devising governments, and some honourable members, I know not through what fatality of the times, fell in with them.

When Colonel Hutchinson

came into the country some time before Lambert's revolt, Mr.

Robert Pierrepont, the son of the late Colonel Francis Pierrepont,

sent friends to entreat the Colonel to receive him into his pro-

tection. Upon the entreaty of his uncle he took him into his own

house, and entertained him civilly there, whilst he writ to the

Speaker, urging his youth, his surrender of himself, and all he

could do in favour of him, desiring to know how they would please

to dispose of him. Before the letters were answered Lambert had

broken the parliament, and the colonel told him he was free again

to do what he pleased; but the young gentleman begged of the

colonel that he might continue under his sanctuary, till these things

came to some issue. This the colonel very freely admitted, and

entertained him till the second return of the parliament, not with-

out much trouble to his house, of him and his servants, so contrary

to the sobriety and holiness the colonel delighted in, yet for his

father's and his uncle's sakes he endured it about six months.

Some of Lambert's officers, while he marched near Notting-

hamshire, having formerly served under the colonel's command,

came to his house at Owthorpe and told him of the petition that

was set on foot in Lambert's brigade, and consulted whether they

should sign it or no. The colonel advised them by no means to

do it, yet notwithstanding, they did, which made the colonel ex-

ceedingly angry with them, thinking they rather came to see how

he stood affected, than really to ask his counsel. When Lambert

had broken the House, the colonel made a short journey to London

to inform himself how things were, and found some of the members

exceedingly sensible of the sad estate the kingdom was reduced

unto by the rash ambition of these men, and resolving that there

was no way but for every man that abhorred it to improve their

interest in their countries, and to suppress these usurpers and

rebels. Hereupon the colonel took measures to have some arms

bought and sent him, and had prepared a thousand honest men,

whenever he should call for their assistance ; intending to improve

his posse comitatus when occasion should be offered. To provoke

him more particularly to this, several accidents fell out. Among

the rest, six of Lambert's troopers came to gather money, laid

upon the country by an assessment of parliament, whom the

colonel telling that in regard it was levied by that authority, he

had paid it, but otherwise would not ; two of them only who were

in the room with the colonel, the rest being on horseback in the

court, gave him such insolent terms, with such insufferable re-

proaches of the parliament, that the colonel drew a sword which was in the room to have chastised them. While a minister that was by held the colonel's arm, his wife, not willing to have them killed in her presence, opened the door and let them out, who presently ran and fetched in their companions in the yard with cocked pistols. Upon the bustle, while the colonel having disengaged himself from those that held him, was run after them with the sword drawn, his brother came out of another room, upon whom, the soldiers pressing against a door that went into the great hall, the door flew open, and about fifty or sixty men appeared in the hall, who were there upon another business. For Owthorpe, Kinolton, and Hickling, had a contest about a cripple that was sent from one to the other, but at last, out of some respect they had for the colonel, the chief men of the several towns were come to him, to make some accommodation, till the law should be again in force. When the colonel heard the soldiers were come, he left them shut up in his great hall, who by accident thus appearing, put the soldiers into a dreadful fright. When the colonel saw how pale they looked, he encouraged them to take heart, and calmly admonished them for their insolence, and they being changed and very humble through their fear, he called for wine for them, and sent them away. To the most insolent of them he said, "These carriages would bring back the Stewarts." The man, laying his hand upon his sword, said, "Never while he wore that." Among other things they said to the colonel, when he demanded by what authority they came, they showed their swords, and said, "That was their authority." After they were dismissed, the colonel, not willing to appear because he was sheriff of the county, and had many of their papers sent him to publish, concealed himself in his house, and caused his wife to write a letter to Fleetwood, to complain of the affronts had been offered him, and to tell him that he was thereupon retired, till he could dwell safely at home. To this Fleetwood returned a civil answer, and withal sent a protection, to forbid all soldiers from coming to his house, and a command to Swallow who was the colonel of these men, to examine and punish them. Mrs. Hutchinson had sent before to Swallow, who then quartered at Leicester, the next day after it was done, to inform him, who sent a letter utterly disowning their actions, and promising to punish them. This Mrs. Hutchinson sent to show the soldiers who then lay abusing the country at Colson; but when they saw their

officer's letter they laughed at him, and tore it in pieces. Some days after he, in a civil manner, sent a captain with them and other soldiers to Owthorpe, to inquire into their misdemeanours before their faces ; which being confirmed to him, and he beginning to rebuke them, they set him at light, even before Mrs. Hutchinson's face, and made the poor man retire sneaped to his colonel ; while these six rogues, in one week's space, besides the assessments assigned them to gather up, within the compass of five miles, took away violently from the country, for their own expense, above five-and-twenty pounds.

( From Memoirs of Colonel Hutchinson.)

BULSTRODE WHITELOCKE

[The author of Memorials of the English Affaires was the son of a judge, and was born in London in 1605. He was educated at Oxford under the eye of Laud, studied law; and was called to the bar before the accession of Charles I., at which point in history his Memorials begin. After a youth noted, it would seem, by frivolity, he was elected to the Long Parliament, and soon made his mark in it. Of all his impeachers, Strafford said " Palmer and Whitelocke used him like gentlemen." Originally a moderate Royalist, he offered a determined resistance to the attempt to make Presbytery jure Divino. Although he was a member of the Westminster Assembly, he lost no opportunity of fostering a reconciliation between King and Parliament, and was indeed fiercely assailed in the House of Commons for alleged treachery in the course of a private interview which Hollis and he had with Charles at Oxford. Later on, impelled by various motives, he veered round to the side of the more uncompromising opponents of the King. He even became the confidant of Cromwell, and had the courage, when sounded on the subject, to dissuade his chief from assuming the title of King. He was sent by Cromwell as ambassador to Sweden, and on his return resumed his place in Parliament and a practice at the bar, which, though often broken in upon by the exigencies of public affairs was, at some periods of his life, positively enormous. He was included in the Act of Oblivion, and died in 1675 in his house in Wiltshire. Whitelocke, who was married three times, was distinguished by his religious though not ultra-puritanical sentiments, and by a love of his family which justified, in his own eyes at least, the scrupulous care for his own interests that characterised his action at many critical moments in his life.]

WHITELOCKE wrote complete Annals of his life, of which the Memorials are mere extracts. Judged by the latter, which have alone survived, he has no claim to the title of historian. The Memorials are a diary, the mere raw material of history, For philosophical deductions and general views the reader must have recourse to the diarist's Parliamentary speeches, which are scattered liberally throughout the text. Apart from these, and the accounts of conversations, the work is the bald record of events almost no care being bestowed either on arrangement of facts or on style. Neither the excitement of debate nor the heat of battle seems to quicken his pulse or disturb the even flow of his pen.

Yet his language is naturally apt, and he has a keen appreciation of the value of the personal in narrative. Thus he hastily summarises an important but tedious portion of the proceedings against Strafford after this fashion: "A Bill was brought into the House of Commons to attaint the earl of high treason; upon debate whereof they noted him guilty of high treason." Yet he can spare time and space for a genuinely picturesque passage like this:—"The Earl was brought to the bar by the lieutenant of the Tower; his habit black, wearing his George in a gold chain; his countenance nearly black, his person proper, but a little stooping with his distemper or habit of body; his behaviour exceedingly graceful, and his speech full of weight, reason, and pleasingness." Only Whitelocke's speeches and records of conversations smell of the closet lamp. Yet, granted that he was able in the subsequent writing of his orations to heighten their polish, it is evident that he was an effective speaker. Though the best service he rendered to the public was the passing of a measure "for putting all the books of law and proceedings in the Courts of Justice into the English tongue," he did not disdain the rhetorical device of quotation, and his speeches are much more thickly studded with Latin phrases than with appeals to passion. The conversations the motto on the title-page of the Memorials is an index to the value of the book. It is important because it deals with events of which Whitelocke could say, Quæque ipse miserrima vidi, et quorum pars magna fui. He set down his impressions while they were fresh, and there is nothing in his character, so far as it is known, to lead us to suspect his bona fides. In his later years, living in enforced retirement, he wrote many religious books which were never published, but there is extant a posthumous volume of Essays, Ecclesiastical and Civil.

W. Wallace.

SHIP MONEY

Mr. John Hampden, my countryman and kinsman, a gentleman of an ancient family in Buckinghamshire, and of a great estate and parts, denied the payment of ship money, as an illegal tax. He often advised in this great business with Holborn, St. John, myself, and others of his friends and council. Several other gentlemen refused the payment of this tax of ship money : whereupon the king was advised by the Lord Chief Justice Finch, and others, to require the opinion of his judges, which he did, stating the case in a letter to them.

After much solicitation by the chief Justice Finch, promising preferment to some, and highly threatening others whom he found doubting, as themselves reported to me, he got from them in answer to the king's letter and case, their opinions in these words :

We are of opinion, that when the good and safety of the kingdom in general is concerned, and the whole kingdom in danger, your majesty may by writ under the great seal of England, command all your subjects of this your kingdom, at their charge, to provide and furnish such number of ships, with men, victuals, and ammunition, and for such time as your majesty shall think fit, for the defence and safeguard of the kingdom, from such peril and danger. And that by law your majesty may compel the doing thereof in case of refusal, or refractoriness. And we are also of opinion, that in such case your majesty is the sole judge, both of the dangers, and when, and how the same is to be prevented and avoided.

This opinion was signed by Bramston, Finch, Davenport, Denham, Hutton, Jones, Croke, Trever, Vernon, Berkley, Crawley, Weston.

This opinion and subscription of the judges, was inrolled in all the courts of Westminster, and much distasted many gentlemen of the country, and of their own profession, as a thing

extrajudicial, unusual, and of very ill consequence in this great

business, or in any other.

The king, upon this opinion of his judges, gave order for

proceeding against Hampden in the exchequer, where he pleaded,

and the king's council demurring, the point in law came to be

argued for the king by his council, and for Hampden by his

council, and afterwards the judges particularly argued this great

point at the bench, and all of them (except Hutton and Croke)

argued, and gave their judgments for the king.

The arguments both at the bar and bench, were full of

rare and excellent learning, especially in matter of record and

history ; but they are too voluminous to be here inserted.

Judge Croke (of whom I speak knowingly) was resolved to

deliver his opinion for the king, and to that end had prepared

his argument. Yet a few days before he was to argue,

upon discourse with some of his nearest relations, and most

serious thoughts of this business, and being heartened by his

lady, who was a very good and pious woman, and told her

husband upon this occasion, that she hoped he would do nothing

against his conscience, for fear of any danger or prejudice to

him, or his family ; and that she would be contented to suffer

want or any misery with him, rather than be an occasion for

him to do, or say any thing against his judgment and conscience.

Upon these and many the like encouragements, but chiefly

upon his better thoughts, he suddenly altered his purpose and

arguments ; and when it came to his turn, contrary to expectation,

he argued and declared his opinion against the king.

But Hampden, and many others of quality and interest in

their countries, were unsatisfied with this judgment, and

continued to the utmost of their power in opposition to it ; yet

could not at that time give any farther stop or hindrance to

the prosecution of the business of ship money, but it remained

alta mente repostum.

(From Memorials.)

A CONFERENCE WITH THE KING

HOLLIS and I thought ourselves obliged in civility and courtship

to return a visit to the Earl of Lindsey. But (all the com-

missioners having agreed that none of us should singly give

any visit to any of the king's officers or great lords, nor in company without acquainting our fellow-commissioners therewith) we thought fit to tell them our intentions (with their leave) to return a visit to the Earl of Lindsey, who had so courteously first sent to visit us, and all our fellow-commissioners approved thereof, and wished us to do as we intended.

The same evening about eight or nine of the clock, Hollis and I went to the court to the Earl of Lindsey's lodgings, whom we found ill, and in his bed, and divers lords with him; among the rest the Lord Savile, then newly made Earl of Sussex.

The Earl of Lindsey expressed much contentment, and that he took it extreme kindly that we would come to visit him, and treated us with extraordinary respect and courtesy ; and no man with him was so forward to compliment us as was the Lord Savile.

When we had been there about a quarter of an hour, the king and Prince Rupert, and divers great lords came into the chamber, where we were. Whether sent to, after we came, or by accident, we knew not. The king saluted us very civilly, and began to discourse with us, part whereof was to this effect.

King. I am sorry, gentlemen, that you could bring to me no better propositions for peace, nor more reasonable than these are.

Hollis. They are such, sir, as the parliament thought fit to agree upon, and I hope a good issue may be had out of them.

Whitelocke. We are but their servants to present them to your majesty, and very willing to be messengers of peace.

King. I know you could bring no other than what they would send. But I confess I do not a little wonder at some of them, and particularly at the qualifications.

Hol. Your majesty will be pleased to consider of them as a foundation for peace.

King. Surely you yourselves cannot think them to be reasonable or honourable for me to grant.

Hol. Truly, sir, I could have wished that some of them had been otherwise than they are, but your majesty knows that those things are all carried by the major vote.

King. I know they are, and am confident that you who are here and your friends (I must not say your party) in the House endeavoured to have had them otherwise, for I know you are well-willers to peace.

Whit. I have had the honour to attend your majesty often heretofore upon this errand, and am sorry it was not to better effect.

King. I wish, Mr. Whitelocke, that others had been of your judgment, and of Mr. Hollis's judgment, and then I believe we had had an happy end of our differences before now.

Hol. We are bound to your majesty for your gracious and true opinion of us, and wish we had been, or may be capable to do your majesty better service.

King. Your service, Mr. Hollis and the rest of those gentlemen, whose desire hath been for peace, hath been very acceptable to me, who do earnestly desire it my self, and in order to it, and out of the confidence I have of you two that are here with me, I ask your opinion and advice what answer will be best for me to give at this time to your propositions, which may probably further such a peace as all good men desire.

Hol. Your majesty will pardon us if we are not capable in our present condition to advise your majesty.

Whit. We now by accident have the honour to be in your majesty's presence, but our present employment disables us from advising your majesty if we were otherwise worthy to do it in this particular.

King. For your abilities I am able to judge, and I now look not on you in your employments from the parliament, but as friends and my private subjects I require your advice.

Hol. Sir, to speak in a private capacity, your majesty sees that we have been very free, and touching your answer, I shall say further, that I think the best answer would be your own coming amongst us.

Whit. Truly, Sir, I do believe that your majesty's personal presence at your parliament, would sooner put an end to our unhappy distractions than any treaty.

King. How can I come thither with safety?

Hol. I am confident there would be no danger to your person to come away directly to your parliament.

King. That may be a question, but I suppose your principals who sent you hither will expect a present answer to your message.

Whit. The best present, and most satisfactory answer, I humbly believe, would be your majesty's presence with your parliament, and which I hope might be without any danger to you.

BULSTRODE WHITELOCKE

369

Hol. We should be far from advising anything which might be of the least danger to your Majesty's person: and I believe your coming to your parliament would be none; but we most humbly submit that to your majesty's own pleasure and great wisdom.

King. Let us pass by that, and let me desire you two, Mr. Hollis and Mr. Whitelocke to go into the next room, and a little to confer together, and to set down somewhat in writing, which you apprehend may be fit for me to return in answer to your message; and that in your judgments may facilitate and promote this good work of peace.

Hol. We shall obey your majesty's command and withdraw.

We went together into another room, where we were private; and upon discourse together we apprehended that it would be no breach of trust in us to observe the king's desire herein; but that it might be a means to facilitate the work about which we came, the most desirable business of peace.

Therefore by Mr. Hollis's intreaty, and as we both agreed I wrote down what was our sense in this matter, and what might be fit for the substance of the king's answer to our message; but I wrote it not in my usual hand, nor with any name to it, nor was any person present but we two when it was written, nor did the king admit of any others to hear the discourse which passed betwixt him and us.

The paper which was thus written we left upon the table in the withdrawing room; and the king went in, and took it, and then with much favour and civility, bid us farewell, and went away himself, after which, and a few compliments passed between the Earl of Lindsey and us, we took leave of him and the rest of the company, and returned to our own lodgings.

(From the Same.)

THE TRIAL OF THE KING

The High Court of Justice sat in Westminster Hall, the President in his scarlet robe, and many of the commissioners in their best habit.

After the calling the court, the king came in, in his wonted posture with his hat on; as he passed by in the Hall a cry

VOL. II

was made, Justice, Justice, Execution, Execution. This was by

some soldiers and others of the rabble.

The king desired to be heard, the president answered, that

he must hear the court; and sets forth the intentions of the

court to proceed against the prisoner, and withal offered that

the king might speak, so it were not matter of debate.

The king desired, that in regard he had something to say,

for the peace of the kingdom and liberty of the subject, before

sentence were given, he might be heard before the Lords and

Commons in the Painted Chamber.

Upon this the court withdrew into the court of wards, and

the king to Sir Robert Cotton's House ; and after about an

hour's debate, they returned again into Westminster Hall.

The court resolved, that what the king had tendered, tended

to delay ; yet if he would speak anything for himself in court,

before sentence, he might be heard.

Many of the commissioners in the debate of it in the court

of wards, were against this resolution, and pressed to satisfy the

king's desire, and themselves, to hear what the king would say

to them in the Painted Chamber, before sentence ; but it was

voted by the major part in the negative. Upon which Colonel

Harvey, and some others of the commissioners went away in

discontent, and never sat with them afterwards ; this proposal

of the king's being denied by the commissioners, the king there-

upon declared himself, that he had nothing more to say.

Then the president made a large speech of the king's mis-

government, and that by law, kings were accountable to their

people, and to the law, which was their superior, and he instanced

in several kings, who had been deposed, and imprisoned, by

their subjects, especially in the king's native country, where, of

one hundred and nine kings, most were deposed, imprisoned,

or proceeded against for mis-government, and his own grand-

mother removed, and his father an infant crowned.

After this the clerk was commanded to read the sentence,

which recited the charge, and the several crimes of which he

had been found guilty.

For all which treasons and crimes, the court did adjudge

that he, the said Charles Stuart, as a tyrant, traitor, murderer,

and public enemy, shall be put to death by the severing of

his head from his body.

The king then desired to be heard, but it would not be

BULSTRODE WHITELOCKE

371

permitted, being after sentence, and as he returned through the

hall, there was another cry for Justice and Execution.

Here we may take notice of the abject baseness of some

vulgar spirits, who seeing their king in that condition, endeavoured

in their small capacity, further to promote his misery, that they

might a little curry favour with the present powers and pick

thanks of their then superiors.

Some of the very same persons were afterwards as clamorous

for justice against those that were the king’s judges.

A prince is not exempt from the venom of these mad dogs.

(From the Same.)

THOMAS FULLER

[Thomas Fuller was born in the rectory of Aldwinkle St. Peter's, Northamptonshire (the same village but not the same parish, and consequently not in the same house which saw the birth of Dryden some twenty years later), in 1608. His father was a prebendary of Salisbury, as well as rector of Aldwinkle ; and, as his mother's brother, Dr. Davenant, who was president of Queens' College, Cambridge, afterwards became Bishop of the same diocese, he had more than one connection therewith. He was entered at his uncle's college, and graduated there, but migrated to Sidney Sussex. He held a curacy in Cambridge, but as soon as he had taken priest's orders, was presented by his uncle to a prebend in Salisbury, receiving a little later, 1634, the rectory of Broad Windsor, in Dorsetshire. He began to write early, attempting verse without any success ; but when he published the first of his well-known books, The Holy War, he was thirty-one. Three years later, in 1642, he produced the still more characteristic Holy and Profane State, a book in which the whole Fuller appears in microcosm. He had before this removed to London, where he was preacher at the Savoy. When the Rebellion broke out he served as army chaplain at Basing, at Oxford, at Exeter, and peripathetically with Hopton's army. During this time he wrote another of his best books, Good Thoughts in Bad Times (1645), which had sequels later. Considering the active part he had taken on the king's side (though indeed it is said that extreme royalists thought him lukewarm), he was fortunate during the Commonwealth, for though he lost his country benefices, and could not remain at the Savoy, or in Eastcheap, where he preached for some time, he was appointed to and remained undisturbed in the curacy of Waltham Abbey. A Pisgah Sight of Palestine (1650), and his great Church History of Britain (1655), which brought him into controversy with Heylin, were the chief results of this time. The Restoration, when it came, restored him to his benefices, made him a royal chaplain extraordinary, and put him in a good way for a bishopric; but he died of fever on August 16, 1661, being only fifty-three. He had been married twice -- once in quite early life, and again in 1651 to a daughter of Lord Baltinglass. His largest, if not his most important work, the Worthies of England, was published in an unfinished state a year after his death, by his son. His sermons were never collected till 1891, when an edition of them, which had been begun by Mr. J. E. Bailey, a lifelong student of Fuller and collector of books, relating to him, was completed and published by Mr. Axon of Manchester. There is no complete edition of his work ; but a selection from the whole of it appeared under the editorship of Dr. Jessopp at the Clarendon Press, 1892.]

THE locus classicus of English criticism respecting Fuller has long been, and no doubt will long be, Coleridge's marginal note, beginning "Wit was the stuff and substance of Fuller's intellect." It is not easy to speak or think too highly of the genius of Coleridge; but it is much easier to overvalue separate obiter dicta of his, especially dicta of the critical character. For he was as little given to co-ordinate and check his thoughts as to take any other sort of intellectual trouble, and the very genius which made him so often clothe those thoughts in memorable form, makes it necessary to be doubly careful in mistaking the form for the "stuff and substance." His dictum on Fuller, however, has so far received general acceptance from competent persons that probably few critics would refuse to bracket Fuller with Sydney Smith as the wittiest of Englishmen. Some differences of the pair will be found further noticed in these volumes, on the later of them. Here, and as regards Fuller, it may be sufficient to note others. One of his latest editors, Dr. Jessopp, who has also made the comparison with Sydney Smith, has taken occasion, with all due apologies, to tone down, albeit carefully and without any direct antagonism or depreciation, the lofty eulogies which Coleridge and Lamb had bestowed on the author of the Worthies of England. It must have been an ungrateful, but was to some extent a necessary task. For excessive laudation has this drawback, that it constantly creates revulsion in readers who, not quite adjusted to the point of view, endeavour to take it at the bidding of their betters and fail. Such a result would be specially lamentable in Fuller's case, because he is, taken rightly and enjoyed rightly, one of the most delectable of English authors. But it is very likely to happen when such a reader as has just been glanced at goes from extracts and specimens, still more from critical laudations, to his complete works. His two great contemporaries and analogues, Burton and Browne, have nothing to fear from any such process; Fuller perhaps has, and it may possibly be due to a sort of feeling of this that, though he has never wanted for fervent admirers, they seem always rather to have shrunk from paying him the greatest and the most necessary, if the most trying, honour that can be paid to an author by issuing a complete edition of his works. There are many curious contradictions in Fuller's character, both personal and literary, and it is not impossible that the presence of them communicates to his personality and his literature the almost unmatched

piquancy which both possess, and which have never failed to attract fit persons. A Puritan Cavalier (Dr. Jessopp calls him a Puritan, and though I should hardly go so far myself, there is no doubt that Fuller leaned far more to the extreme Protestant side than most of his comrades in loyalty), a man of the sincerest and most unaffected piety, who never could resist a joke, an early member of the exact or antiquarian school of historians, who was certainly not a very profound or wide scholar, and who constantly laid himself open to the animadversions of others by his defects in scholarship—Fuller is a most appetising bundle of contradictions. But his contradictions undoubtedly sometimes disgust ; and perhaps even some almost insatiable lovers of "the humour of it" may occasionally think that he carries the humour of it too far.

It is however his positive rather than his negative side with which we have chiefly to do. From this side Fuller may be described as having had an extraordinary loyalty to and affection for his native country, which led him to acquire the mass of information laid up in his Church History and Worthies ; a sincere, though not a very erudite theology ; and the above-mentioned wit, which, being the ruling characteristic of his nature, showed itself at all times and in all places. Its direct and immediate effects, if not always exactly suitable to time and place, are always delightful. The memorable anthology in quintessence of Fullerisms which Charles Lamb has collected might be very largely increased, and indeed the work of Dr. Jessopp, to which reference has been made, does so increase it. But though, as has been hinted, the reading of the great mass of Fuller's work may induce a certain occasional revulsion, it may be doubted whether the full virtue of the Fullerian wit is perceptible till such reading has been undertaken. Only then can the mild wisdom, which hardly ever fails of mildness unless the Roman Catholic Church is concerned, be fully appreciated, and the vivid wit which accompanies it be fully comprehended. The singular fertility in conjoining strange societies of thought, which has generally been considered the essence of wit, is present everywhere, and always delightful. The imagination—or fancy, rather—which supplies Fuller with these conjunctions is not poetical, as it was in his nearer contemporary, Browne ; it is not erudite and all-compelling, as in the case of his somewhat older contemporary, Burton. It is a little desultory, a very little "Philistine," sometimes a little childish

but it is always and everywhere delightful, and sometimes strangely stimulative and informing.

The indirect literary effects of this peculiarity of Fuller's on his style are noteworthy. For it can hardly be doubted that Fuller's essential quality of thought, the quaint and perpetual bubbling up within him of odd jests, comparisons, and what not, had a good deal to do with his comparative freedom from the besetting sin of his time—the sin of long, complicated, over-weighted sentences. Although a parenthesis or an additional clause will sometimes suffice for such spirts and fireworks of jest as those in which Fuller, be the subject sacred or profane, be the form of his utterance sermon, essay, history, or what not, must needs indulge, it will not always suffice for them ; and there are many reasons for putting the jest in a sentence by itself, and so leaving the most serious part of the narrative or argument ostensibly uninterrupted.

However this may be, it is certain that Fuller, his quaintness excepted, is one of the least antique or obsolete of mid-seventeenth-century writers. That he is one of the most agreeable and also one of the most instructive is the unanimous verdict of competent critics ; and if some of those critics dwell most on their sense of pleasure, and others most on the limitations which they perceive in the giver of it, that is not a very serious difference. But it is impossible not to express regret at the absence of a really complete edition of his works. Comparatively few people may have noticed how great is the effect of diversity in mechanical presentment of books on the mind of the reader, but his must be an unusually critical mind who brings exactly the same faculties of appreciation to a seventeenth-century folio, to one of the stately quartos of the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of this, to a bookseller's octavo of the early Victorian period, and to batches of reprints of all shapes and sizes since. There ought to be a complete Fuller ; and in any country but England there would long since have been one.

GEORGE SAINTSBURY.

THE NATURAL COMMODITIES OF HAMPSHIRE

Red Deer

Great store of these were lately in the New Forest, so called because newly made by King William the Conqueror. Otherwise, ten years hence, it will be six hundred years old. Indeed, as Augustus Cæsar is said to have said of Herod King of Judæa, that it was better to be his hog than his child ; so was it most true of that King William, that it was better to have been his stag than his subject ; the one being by him spared and preserved, the other ruined and destroyed : such was the devastation he made of towns in this country, to make room for his game. And it is worth our observing the opposition betwixt the characters of

"Templa Deo, templis monachos, monachis dedit agros."

King Edgar

"Templa adimit Divis, fora civibus, arva colonis."

King William

And now was the south-west of this country made a forest indeed, if, as an antiquary hath observed, a forest be so called, quia foris est, because it is set open and abroad. The stags therein were stately creatures, jealous, revengeful ; insomuch that I have been credibly informed, that a stag, unable for the present to master another who had taken his hind from him, waited his opportunity, till his enemy had weakened himself with his wantonness, and then killed him. Their flesh may well be good, whose very horns are accounted cordial. Besides, there is a concave in the neck of a green-headed stag, when above his first crossing, wherein are many worms, some two inches in length, very useful in physic, and therefore carefully put up by Sir Theodore Mayerne and other skilful physicians. But, I believe, there be few stags now in New Forest, fewer harts, and

not any harts-royal (as escaping the chase of a king) ; though in time there may be some again.

HONEY

Although this country affordeth not such lakes of honey as some authors relate found in hollow trees in Muscovy ; nor yieldeth combs equal to that which Pliny reporteth seen in Germany, eight feet long ; yet produceth it plenty of this necessary and profitable commodity.

Indeed Hampshire hath the worst and best honey in England ; worst, on the heath, hardly worth five pounds the barrel ; best, in the champaign, where the same quantity will well nigh be sold for twice as much. And it is generally observed, the finer the wheat and wool, both which are very good in this county, the purer the honey of that place.

Honey is useful for many purposes, especially that honey which is the lowest in any vessel. For it is an old and true rule " the best oil is in the top ; the best wine in the middle ; and the best honey in the bottom." It openeth obstructions, cleareth the breast from those humours which fall from the head ; with many other sovereign qualities, too many to be reckoned up in a winter's day.

However, we may observe three degrees, or kinds rather, of honey :—(1) Virgin honey, which is the purest, of a late swarm which never bred bees. (2) Chaste honey, for so I may term all the rest which is not sophisticated with any addition. (3) Harlot honey, as which is adulterated with meal and other trash mingled therewith.

Of the first and second sort I understand the counsel of Solomon, "My son, eat honey, for it is good :" good absolutely in the substance, though there may be excess in the quantity thereof.

WAX

This is the cask, where honey is the liquor ; and, being yellow by nature, is by art made white, red, and green, which I take to be the dearest colours, especially when appendant on parchment. Wax is good by day and by night, when it affordeth light, for sight the clearest ; for smell the sweetest ; for touch the cleanliest. Useful in law to seal instruments ; and in physic, to mollify sinews,

ripen and dissolve ulcers, etc. Yea, the ground and foundation of all cere-cloth (so called from cera) is made of wax.

Hogs

Hampshire hogs are allowed by all for the best bacon, being our English Westphalian, and which, well ordered, hath deceived the most judicious palates. Here the swine feed in the forest on plenty of acorns (men's neat in the golden, hogs' food in this iron age); which, going out lean, return home fat, without either care or cost of their owners. Nothing but fulness stinteth their feeding on the mast falling from the trees, where also they lodge at liberty (not pent up, as in other places, to stacks of peas), which some assign the reason of the fineness of their flesh; which, though not all glorre (where no banks of lean can be seen for the deluge of fat), is no less delicious to the taste, and more wholesome for the stomach.

Swine's flesh, by the way, is observed most nutritive of men's bodies, because of its assimilation thereunto. Yet was the eating thereof forbidden to the Jews, whereof this reason may be rendered (besides the absolute will of the law-giver), because in hot countries men's bodies are subject to the measles and leprosies, who have their greatest repast on swine's flesh. For the climate of Canaan was all the year long as hot as England betwixt May and Michaelmas; and it is penal for any butchers with us in that term to kill any pork in the public shambles.

As for the manufacture of clothing in this county (diffused throughout the same) such as deny the goodness of Hampshire cloth, and have occasion to wear it, will be convinced of its true worth by the price which they must pay for it.

(From the History of the Worthies of England.)

John of Trevisa and Geoffrey Chaucer

This year a godly, learned, and aged servant of God ended his days; namely, John de Trevisa, a gentleman of an ancient family (bearing Gules, a Garbe, Or,), born at Crocadon in Cornwall, a secular priest, and Vicar of Berkeley; a painful and faithful translator of many and great books into English, as Polychronicon, written by Ranulphus of Chester, Bartholomæus De Rerum Proprietatibus, etc. But his masterpiece was the translating of the

Old and New Testament ; justifying his act herein by the example of Bede, who turned the Gospel of St. John in English.

I know not which more to admire, his ability, that he could—his courage, that he durst—or his industry, that he did—perform so difficult and dangerous a task ; having no other commission than the command of his patron, Thomas Lord Berkeley : which, as the said Trevisa observeth, had the Apocalypse in Latin and French, then generally understood by the better sort as well as English, written on the roof and walls of his chapel at Berkeley; and which not long since (namely, anno 1622), so remained, as not much defaced. Whereby we may observe, that, midnight being past, some early risers even then began to strike fire, and enlighten themselves from the Scriptures.

It may seem a miracle, that the bishops being thus busy in persecuting God's servants, and Trevisa so obnoxious to their fury for this translation, that he lived and died without any molestation. Yet was he a known enemy to monkery ; witness that (among many other) of his speeches, that he “had read how Christ had sent apostles and priests into the world, but never any monks or begging friars.” But, whether it was out of reverence to his own aged gravity, or respect to his patron's greatness, he died full of honour, quiet, and age, little less than ninety years old. For, (1) He ended his translation of Polychronicon, (as appeareth by the conclusion thereof,) the 29th of Edward III. when he cannot be presumed less than thirty years of age. (2) He added to the end thereof, fifty (some say more) years of his own historical observations. Thus as he gave a Garbe or Wheatsheaf for his arms, so, to use the prophet's expression, “the Lord gathered him as a sheaf into the floor,” Micah iv. 12, even full ripe and ready for the same.

We may couple with him his contemporary, Geoffrey Chaucer, born (some say) in Berkshire, others in Oxfordshire, most and truest in London. If the Grecian Homer had seven, let our English have three places contest for his nativity. Our Homer, I say ; only herein he differed : Mæonides nullas ipse reliquit opes : “Homer himself did leave no pelf:” whereas our Chaucer left behind him a rich and worshipful estate.

His father was a vintner in London ; and I have heard his arms quarrelled at, being Argent and Gules strangely contrived, and hard to be blazoned. Some more wits have made it the dashing of white and red wine, (the parents of our ordinary claret),

as nicking his father's profession. But were Chaucer alive, he

would justify his own arms in the face of all his opposers, being

not so devoted to the Muses, but he was also a son of Mars.

He was the prince of English poets; married the daughter of

Pain Roëc, king of arms in France, and sister to the wife of John

of Gaunt, king of Castile.

He was a great refiner and illuminer of our English tongue;

and, if he left it so bad, how much worse did he find it! Wit-

ness Leland thus praising him:-

Prædicat Algerum merito Florentia Dantem,

Italia et numeros tota, Petrarchê, tuos.

Anglia Chaucerum veneratur nostra Poetam,

Cui Veneres debet patria lingua suas.

"Of Alger Dants Florence doth justly boast,

Of Petrarch brags all the Italian coast.

England doth poet Chaucer reverence,

To whom our language owes its eloquence."

Indeed, Verstegan, a learned antiquary, condemns him, for

spoiling the purity of the English tongue by the mixture of so

many French and Latin words. But he who mingles wine with

water, though he destroys the nature of water, improves the

quality thereof.

I find this Chaucer fined in the Temple two shillings for

striking a Franciscan friar in Fleet Street; and it seems his hands

ever after itched to be revenged, and have his pennyworths out

of them, so tickling religious Orders with his tales, and yet so

pinching them with his truths, that friars, in reading his books,

know not how to dispose their faces betwixt crying and laughing.

He lies buried in the south aisle of St. Peter's, Westminster; and

since hath got the company of Spenser and Drayton, a pair royal

of poets, enough almost to make passengers' feet to move metri-

cally, who go over the place where so much poetical dust is

interred.

(From the Church History of Britain.)

THE GOOD YEOMAN

The good yeoman is a gentleman in ore, whom the next age

may see refined; and is the wax capable of a genteel impression,

when the prince shall stamp it. Wise Solon (who accounted

Tellus the Athenian the most happy man, for living privately on

his own lands) would surely have pronounced the English yeo-

manry "a fortunate condition," living in the temperate zone

betwixt greatness and want ; an estate of people almost peculiar

to England. France and Italy are like a die, which hath no

points between cinque and ace—nobility and peasantry. Their

walls, though high, must needs be hollow, wanting filling-stones.

Indeed, Germany hath her boors, like our yeoman ; but, by a

tyrannical appropriation of nobility to some few ancient families,

their yeomen are excluded from ever rising higher, to clarify their

bloods. In England, the temple of honour is bolted against none

who have passed through the temple of virtue ; nor is a capacity

to be genteel denied to our yeoman, who thus behaves himself :-

MAXIM I

He wears russet clothes, but makes golden payment.—Having

tin in his buttons, and silver in his pocket. If he chance to

appear in clothes above his rank, it is to grace some great man

with his service ; and then he blusheth at his own bravery.

Otherwise, he is the surest landmark whence foreigners may take

aim of the ancient English customs ; the gentry more floating

after foreign fashions.

MAXIM II

In his house he is bountiful both to strangers and to poor people.

—Some hold, when hospitality died in England, she gave her

last groan amongst the yeomen of Kent. And still, at our yeo-

man's table, you shall have as many joints as dishes ; no meat

disguised with strange sauces ; no straggling joint of a sheep in

the midst of a pasture of grass, beset with salads on every side ;

but solid, substantial food. No servitors (more nimble with

their hands, than the guests with their teeth) take away meat,

before stomachs are taken away. Here you have that which in

itself is good, made better by the store of it, and best by the

welcome to it.

MAXIM III

He hath a great stroke in making the knight of the shire.—

Good reason, for he makes a whole line in the subsidy book ;

where, whatsoever he is rated, he pays without any regret, not

caring how much his purse is let blood, so it be done by the advice of the physicians of the State.

MAXIM IV

He seldom goes far abroad, and his credit stretcheth further than his travel.—He goes not to London, but se defendendo to save himself of a fine, being returned of a jury ; where seeing the king once, he prays for him ever afterwards.

MAXIM V

In his own country he is a main man in juries.—Where, if the judge please to open his eyes in matter of law, he needs not to be led by the nose in matters of fact. He is very observant of the judge's item; when it follows the truth's imprimis; otherwise (though not mutinous in a jury,) he cares not whom he displeaseth, so he pleaseth his own conscience.

MAXIM VI

He improveth his land to a double value by his good husbandry.—Some grounds that wept with water, or frowned with thorns, by draining the one, and clearing the other, he makes both to laugh and sing with corn. By marl and limestones burnt, he bettereth his ground ; and his industry worketh miracles, by turning stones into bread. Conquest and good husbandry both enlarge the king's dominions ; the one, by the sword, making the acres more in number ; the other, by the plough, making the same acres more in value. Solomon saith, "The king himself is maintained by husbandry." Pythis, a king, having discovered rich mines in his kingdom, employed all his people in digging of them ; whence tilling was wholly neglected, insomuch as a great famine ensued. His queen, sensible of the calamities of the country, invited the king her husband to dinner, as he came home hungry from overseeing his workmen in the mines. She so contrived it, that the bread and meat were most artificially made of gold ; and the king was much delighted with the conceit thereof, till at last he called for real meat to satisfy his hunger. " Nay," said the queen, "if you employ all your subjects in your mines, you must expect to feed upon gold ; for nothing else can your kingdom afford."

384

ENGLISH PROSE

MAXIM VII

In time of famine, he is the Joseph of the country, and keeps the poor from starving.—Then he tameth his stacks of corn, which not his covetousness but providence hath reserved for time of need; and to his poor neighbours abateth somewhat of the high price of the market. The neighbour gentry court him for his acquaintance; which either he modestly waveth, or thankfully accepteth, but no way greedily desireth. He insults not on the ruins of a decayed gentleman, but pities and relieves him; and, as he is called “Goodman,” he desires to answer to the name, and to be so indeed.

MAXIM VIII

In war, though he serveth on foot, he is ever mounted on a high spirit.—As being a slave to none, and a subject only to his own prince. Innocence and independence make a brave spirit; whereas, otherwise, one must ask his leave to be valiant on whom one depends. Therefore, if a State run up all to noblemen and gentlemen, so that the husbandmen be only mere labourers or cottagers, (which one calls “but housed beggars,”) it may have good cavalry, but never good bands of foot; so that their armies will be like those birds called apodes, “without feet,” always only flying on their wings of horse. Wherefore, to make good infantry, it requireth men bred, not in a servile or indigent fashion, but in some free and plentiful manner. Wisely, therefore, did that knowing prince, King Henry VII., provide laws for the increase of his yeomanry, that his kingdom should not be like to coppice woods; where, the staddles being left too thick, all runs to bushes and briars, and there is little clean underwood. For, enacting that houses used to husbandry should be kept up with a competent proportion of land, he did secretly sow Hydra's teeth; whereupon, according to the poet's fiction, should rise up armed men for the service of this kingdom.

(From The Holy State.)

EJACULATIONS: THEIR PRIVILEGE

Ejaculations take not up any room in the soul. They give liberty of callings, so that at the same instant one may follow his

proper vocation. The husbandman may dart forth an ejaculation and not make a balk the more. The seaman nevertheless steer his ship right, in the darkest night. Yea, the soldier at the same time may shoot out his prayer to God, and aim his pistol at his enemy, the one better hitting the mark for the other.

The field wherein bees feed is no whit the barer for their biting; when they have taken their full repast on flowers or grass, the ox may feed, the sheep fat, on their reversions. The reason is because those little chemists distil only the refined part of the flower, leaving the gross or substance thereof. So ejaculations bind not men to any bodily observance, only busy the spiritual half, which maketh them consistent with the prosecution of any other employment.

(From Good Thoughts in Bad Times.)

AN ILL MATCH

Divine Providence is remarkable in ordering, that a fog and a tempest never did, nor can, meet together in nature. For as soon as a fog is fixed the tempest is allayed; and as soon as a tempest doth arise the fog is dispersed. This is a great mercy; for otherwise such small vessels as boats and barges, which want the conduct of the card and compass, would irrecoverably be lost.

How sad, then, is the condition of many sectaries in our age; which in the same instant have a fog of ignorance in their judgments, and a tempest of violence in their affections, being too blind to go right, and yet too active to stand still.

(From the Same.)

THE IMPRISONMENT AND RANSOM OF KING RICHARD

King Richard setting sail from Syria, the sea and wind favoured him till he came into the Adriatic (Oct. 8); and on the coasts of Istria he suffered shipwreck; wherefore he intended to pierce through Germany by land, the nearest way home. But the nearness of the way is to be measured not by the shortness but the safeness of it.

VOL. II

2 C

He disguised himself to be one Hugo, a merchant, whose only commodity was himself, whereof he made but a bad bargain.

For he was discovered in an inn in Austria, because he disguised his person, not his expenses ; so that the very policy of an hostess, finding his purse so far above his clothes, did detect him (Dec. 20) ; yea, saith mine author, Facies orbi terrarum nota, ignorari non potuit.

The rude people, flocking together, used him with insolencies unworthy him, worthy themselves ; and they who would shake at the tail of this loose lion, durst laugh at his face now they saw him in a grate ; yet all the weight of their cruelty did not bow him beneath a princely carriage.

Leopold Duke of Austria hearing hereof, as being lord of the soil, seized on this royal stray (Dec. 20) ; meaning now to get his pennyworths out of him, for the affront done unto him in Palestine.

Not long after the duke sold him to Henry the emperor, for his harsh nature surnamed Asper, and it might have been Sævus, being but one degree from a tyrant.

He kept King Richard in bands, charging him with a thousand faults committed by him in Sicily, Cyprus, and Palestine.

The proofs were as slender as the crimes gross, and Richard having an eloquent tongue, innocent heart, and bold spirit, acquitted himself in the judgment of all the hearers.

At last he was ransomed for a hundred and forty thousand marks, colen weight.

A sum so vast in that age, before the Indies had overflowed all Europe with their gold and silver, that to raise it in England they were forced to sell their church plate, to their very chalices.

Whereupon out of most deep divinity it was concluded, that they should not celebrate the sacrament in glass, for the brittleness of it ; nor in wood, for the sponginess of it, which would suck up the blood ; nor in alchymy, because it was subject to rusting ; nor in copper, because that would provoke vomiting ; but in chalices of latten, which belike was a metal without exception.

And such were used in England for some hundred years after, until at last John Stafford, Archbishop of Canterbury, when the land was more replenished with silver, inknotteth that priest in the greater excommunication that should consecrate poculum stanneum.

(From the History of the Holy War.)

THOMAS FULLER

387

FULLER'S FAREWELL TO EXETER ON THE EVE

OF ITS SURRENDER

AND now I am to take my final farewell of this famous city of

Exeter. I have suffered from some for saying several times, that

I thought this or this would be my last sermon, when afterwards

I have preached again. Yet I hope the guests are not hurt, if I

bring them in a course more than I promised or they expect.

Such would have forborne their censures had they consulted with

the Epistle to the Romans. In the fifteenth chapter, verse 33,

the apostle seems to close and conclude his discourse, 'Now the

God of Peace be with you all, Amen.' And yet presently he

beginneth afresh and continueth his epistle a whole chapter longer.

Yea, in the sixteenth chapter, verse 20, St. Paul takes a second

soleinn vale, 'The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all,

Amen;' and, notwithstanding, still he spins out his matter three

verses farther, till that full and final period, verse 27, 'To God

only wise be glory through Jesus Christ for ever, Amen.' Thus

loath to depart is the tune of all loving friends : the same I may

plead for myself, so often taking my farewell, wherein if any were

deceived, none I am sure were injured.

Now this is all : the Rabbins have a conceit that manna

relished so to the palates of the Jews just as the eater thereof did

fancy or desire. Consult with yourselves, and wish your own

spiritual and temporal conveniences, wish what you will, for body,

soul, both; you, yours, your private, the public; confine not

your happiness with too narrow measure of your own making.

And my constant prayer to God shall be, that he would be pleased

to be to you all in general, each one in particular, that very thing

which you for your own good do most desire, Amen.

(From Fear of losing the Old Light, a Sermon preached

in Exeter.)

LORD CLARENDON

[Edward Hyde was descended from a family of old standing in Cheshire, and was born in Wilts in 1608. He was sent to Oxford to be bred for the Church, but after taking his degree began the study of the law at the Middle Temple, his uncle being a lawyer of great influence in the profession, afterwards Lord Chief Justice. By an early marriage in 1629, he became connected with the Duke of Buckingham. His first wife died in six months; and three years later, he married the daughter of Sir Thomas Aylesbury, and settled himself seriously to the work of his profession, in which he attained much success. At first he joined the popular party, not from a desire of violent change, nor from any wish to encroach upon the prerogative, but from his jealousy of that tampering with the law of which the unconstitutional courts, that had lately sprung up, were guilty. This attitude he maintained until the open attacks upon the Church, of which he was the ardent defender, broke his connection with the popular party; and he soon became the trusted adviser of the king. In 1643 he became Chancellor of the Exchequer, at a time when his duties consisted chiefly in contriving means of raising contributions amongst the king's adherents; and being sent to Jersey, as minister attending upon the Prince of Wales, he accompanied him afterwards to France, remained with him as titular minister, and played a leading part in the negotiations that ended in the Restoration. For seven years he maintained himself, amidst many ignoble factions, as the leading authority in the State, holding the office of Lord Chancellor, and being created Earl of Clarendon. In 1667 the intrigues against him succeeded; he was exiled, and died in France in 1674. His works, beyond those which are rather of the nature of State papers, are the History of the Rebellion, not published till 1702, and the Life and Continuation of the History, not published till 1759.]

In the case of a man like Clarendon, the chief part of whose life was the making of history, and only a very secondary part the writing of it, we must look much more to his experiences than to any literary principles or model, in order to find out what determined his methods and his style. For his University he always maintained an ungrudging devotion, but his literary tastes were formed in another school; and he tells us himself that he 'left it, rather with the opinion of a young man of parts and pregnancy

of wit, than that he had improved it much by industry.

He counted it a piece of good fortune that he left it early; and his

first mental training was in the discipline of the law. To that

he joined close association with a singularly choice band of

friends; and he "dedicated himself to the profession of the law,

without declining the polite learning to which his humour and

his conversation always kept him very indulgent." The study of

the law was, indeed, scarcely congenial to him; he had "to lay

some obligation on himself" to continue it; and, although in

thought and action he was dominated by its influence, he never

became a great lawyer. In youth his health was weak; and

when he lost by death his first wife, "a young lady very fair and

beautiful," . . . nearly allied to many noble families in England,

he tells us that "nothing but his entire duty and reverence to his

father kept him from giving over all thoughts of books, and

transporting himself beyond the seas to enjoy his own melan-

choly." Of a temper keen, ardent, and impulsive, it was only

by severe self-discipline that he forced himself again into the

routine of his profession; but this was made more easy by his

marriage with his second wife, "with whom he lived very com-

fortably in the most uncomfortable times, and very joyfully in

those times when matter of joy was administered, for the space

of five or six and thirty years." To his father, who was, as he

tells us, omnifariam doctus, he owed much; and his training in

life was an admirable one. While pursuing actively the career

of a practising lawyer, he sweetened his life and enlarged his

range by mixing, as one of themselves, amidst a society of choice

spirits — chief amongst them, Ben Jonson, John Selden, Sir

Kenelm Digby, and Thomas Carew. "If he had anything good

in him," he was wont to say, "in his humour, or in his manners,

he owed it to the example and the information he had received

in and from that company, with most of whom he had an entire

friendship." Their characters he has sketched for us with

that skill which stood him in such good stead when he

came to portray the actors on a wider and a more momentous

stage.

His first introduction to public life was through Archbishop

Laud; and, while in the early struggles between the Court and

the Parliament, his ardent constitutionalism led him to oppose

some encroachments of the prerogative, it would be a mistake to

conceive him as an active supporter of the popular party. As

the designs of that party became more evident, and especially as their opposition to the Church became more marked, Hyde was distinctly estranged from them; and before the war broke out, he was the trusted, but candid, adviser of the king. In spite of bitter vexation, caused by designs which were opposed to his own, and of which he clearly saw the inexpediency, he never swerved from his loyalty to that cause. The Restoration brought to him the outward semblance of reward, but with it a responsibility that weighed heavily upon him, as he saw the fatal danger which the corruption of the time, and the laxity of Charles II., were storing up for the future. For seven years he was able to maintain himself against a strange coalition, which banded against him what was most corrupt in the Court, and most progressive in the nation; and when he fell, it was after he had given his labour, his strength, and his peace to establish in his country his own ideal of orderly and constitutional government, which he saw to be threatened chiefly by the acts of those to whom his loyalty was ungrudgingly pledged. It is an easy criticism to urge against Clarendon that he was incapable of appreciating the new forces that were at work in English history. But the same criticism may always be urged against one who has formed a definite ideal, and will not swerve from it; and it remains none the less true that there is scarcely any prime minister of England who left upon her so firm an impress of his own personality--an impress which remained fresh to a period within living memory, and traces of which are not wanting even now.

To such an experience as Clarendon's, the making of history was far more than the writing of it; and the habits bred of action in a great scene and in a great crisis, the varied tasks which had been thrust upon him, the tragic significance of the long struggle that constituted his life, have, in combination with those literary interests that from first to last sweetened his toil, given to his style its special and inimitable characteristics. It is often cumbrous and prolix; its construction is frequently irregular; the arrangement is sometimes confusing, and the sense of proportion seems to be lost. But its chief note is one of almost tragic dignity. His History of the Rebellion—be it noted, the first history which our literature possesses from the hand of a great actor in the struggle it portrays—has something of the burden of an epic. But it is enlivened by those inimitable characters

which his careful study of human nature, his intense desire to know those who were worthy to be known, enabled him to draw ; portraits in which every feature is given in its due proportion, and in which no trait, however homely, is omitted which can add to their dramatic force. But these frequently recurring sketches, to which all readers of the Life and of the Rebellion will turn with chief pleasure, do not exhaust the great qualities of Clarendon in literature. In every page we see marks of that acquaintance with great administrative affairs that dispels the mists of pedantry which are apt to gather round the mere student of history. Even when he is cumbrous in his sentences, we seem to hear the voice of one accustomed to speak to great assemblies, and who, as Pepys tells us, gave such an impression of easy mastery in his parliamentary orations. The habit of the orator to supply the place of logical sequence and orderly arrangement, by variations of tone, of manner, of action, is evident throughout every page of Clarendon, but is chiefly evident when his feelings are most moved. It is then that he indulges in phrases almost conversational in their familiarity, but none the less forcible. “To warm the people into rebellion;” “the incurable disease of want of money ;” “artillery, commonly a sponge that can never be filled ;” “the gamesters who were to play this game looked into their hands ;” such phrases as these are constantly recurring where his narrative is most quick and dramatic. He groups together the light and dark shades in his portraits, the favourable and adverse criticisms of special actions, just as the dramatist or the orator might group them, so as to lead his audience gradually into his own mental attitude, and to produce an impression which even those most opposed to him find it hard to throw off. He gives to his narrative the deepest force of reality, because the habits of a lifetime had made him familiar with great affairs. He gives to it the sternness of tragedy, because he had maintained for years a losing struggle, and had exchanged ease and comfort for the burden and hardships of exile. His unique experience, in uniting the literary friendships of his early manhood with the heavy task of his later years, helps him to give to it grace and variety. But above all—and it is in this that our chief literary inheritance from Clarendon consists—he wears his habit as a writer easily and lightly, as one who wore it not merely as the student, or the scholar, or the historian, but as the dress in which he is to tell

LORD CLARENDON

the momentous history where he himself played so large and so dignified a part. Such literary work as that of Clarendon does more than anything else to disencumber literature of pedantry, and to make it instinct with the life and movement of human affairs.

H. CRAIK.

THE DEATH OF STRAFFORD

During these perplexities, the Earl of Strafford, taking notice of the straits the king was in, the rage of the people still increasing (from whence he might expect a certain outrage and ruin), how constant soever the king continued to him; and, it may be, knowing of an undertaking (for such an undertaking there was) by a great person, who had then a command in the Tower, "that if the king refused to pass the bill, to free the kingdom from the hazard it seemed to be in, he would cause his head to be stricken off in the Tower;") writ a most pathetical letter to the king, full of acknowledgment of his favours ; but lively presenting "the dangers, which threatened himself and his posterity, by his obstinacy in those favours ;" and therefore by many arguments conjuring him "no longer to defer his assent to the bill, that so his death might free the kingdom from the many troubles it apprehended."

The delivery of this letter being quickly known, new arguments were applied: "that this free consent of his own clearly absolved the king from any scruple that could remain with him ;" and so in the end they extorted from him, to sign a commission to some lords to pass the bill: which was as valid as if he had signed it himself ; though they comforted him even with that circumstance, "that his own hand was not in it."

It may easily be said, that the freedom of the parliament, and his own negative voice, being thus barbarously invaded, if his majesty had, instead of passing that act, come to the house and dissolved the parliament; or if he had withdrawn himself from that seditious city, and put himself in the head of his own army ; much of the mischief, which hath since happened, would have been prevented. But whoever truly considers the state of affairs at that time; the prevalency of that faction in both houses ; the rage and fury of the people ; the use that was made by the schismatical preachers (by whom all the orthodox were

silenced) of the late protestation in their pulpits ; the fears and

jealousies they had infused into the minds of many sober men,

upon the discourse of the late plot; the constitution of the

council-table, that there was not an honest man durst speak his

conscience to the king, for fear of his ruin ; and that those,

whom he thought most true to him, betrayed him every hour,

insomuch as his whispers in his bedchamber were instantly

conveyed to those against whom those whispers were ; so that he

had very few men to whom he could breathe his conscience and

complaint, that were not suborned against him, or averse to his

opinions : that on the other side, if some expedient were not

speedily found out, to allay that frantic rage and combination in

the people, there was reason enough to believe, their impious

hands would be lifted up against his own person, and (which he

much more apprehended) against the person of his royal consort ;

and lastly, that (besides the difficulty of getting thither except he

would have gone alone) he had no ground to be very confident

of his own army : I say, whoever sadly contemplates this, will

find cause to confess, the part which the king had to act was not

only harder than any prince, but than any private gentleman,

had been incumbent to ; and that it is much easier, upon the

accidents and occurrences which have since happened, to

determine what was not to have been done, than at that time

to have foreseen, by what means to have freed himself from the

labyrinth in which he was involved.

All things being thus transacted, to conclude the fate of this

great person, he was on the twelfth day of May brought from the

Tower of London (where he had been a prisoner near six months)

to the scaffold on Tower-hill ; where, with a composed, undaunted

courage, he told the people, "he was come thither to satisfy

them with his head; but that he much feared, the reformation

which was begun in blood would not prove so fortunate to the

kingdom, as they expected, and he wished;" and after great

expressions "of his devotion to the church of England, and the

protestant religion established by law, and professed in that

church ; of his loyalty to the king, and affection to the peace and

welfare of the kingdom ;" with marvellous tranquillity of mind,

he delivered his head to the block, where it was severed from his

body at a blow ; many of the standers by, who had not been

over charitable to him in his life, being much affected with the

courage and Christianity of his death.

Thus fell the greatest subject in power, and little inferior to any in fortune, that was at that time in any of the three kingdoms; who could well remember the time when he led those people, who then pursued him to his grave. He was a man of great parts, and extraordinary endowments of nature; not unadorned with some addition of art and learning, though that again was more improved and illustrated by the other; for he had a readiness of conception, and sharpness of expression, which made his learning thought more than in truth it was. His first inclinations and addresses to the court were only to establish his greatness in the country; where he apprehended some acts of power from the old lord Savile, who had been his rival always there, and of late had strengthened himself by being made a privy counsellor, and officer at court; but his first attempts were so prosperous that he contented not himself with being secure from his power in the country, but rested not, till he had bereaved him of all power and place in court; and so sent him down, a most abject, disconsolate, old man, to his country, where he was to have the superintendency over him too, by getting himself at that time made lord president of the north. These successes, applied to a nature too elate and arrogant of itself, and a quicker progress into the greatest employments and trust, made him more transported with disdain of other men, and more contemning the forms of business, than happily he would have been, if he had met with some interruptions in the beginning, and had passed in a more leisurely gradation to the office of a statesman.

He was, no doubt, of great observation, and a piercing judgment, both into things and persons; but his too good skill in persons made him judge the worse of things; for it was his misfortune to be of a time wherein very few wise men were equally employed with him; and scarce any (but the Lord Coventry, whose trust was more confined) whose faculties and abilities were equal to his; so that upon the matter he wholly relied upon himself: and discerning many defects in most men, he too much neglected what they said or did. Of all his passions, his pride was most predominant; which a moderate exercise of ill fortune might have corrected and reformed; and which was by the hand of Heaven strangely punished, by bringing his destruction upon him by two things that he most despised, the people and Sir Harry Vane. In a word, the epitaph, which Plutarch records that Sylla wrote for himself, may not be unfitly

applied to him: “that no man did ever pass him, either in doing good to his friends, or in doing mischief to his enemies;” for his acts of both kinds were most exemplary and notorious.

(From the History of the Rebellion.).

THE CITY OF LONDON

THE city of London, as the metropolis of England, by the situation the most capable of trade, and by the most usual residence of the court, and the fixed station of the courts of justice for the public administration of justice throughout the kingdom, the chief seat of trade, was, by the successive countenance and favour of princes, strengthened with great charters and immunities, and was a corporation governed within itself; the mayor, recorder, aldermen, sheriffs, chosen by themselves; several companies incorporated within the great corporation; which, besides notable privileges, enjoyed lands and perquisites to a very great revenue. By the incredible increase of trade, which the distractions of other countries, and the peace of this, brought, and by the great license of resort thither, it was, since the access of the crown to the king, in riches, in people, in buildings, marvellously increased; insomuch as the suburbs were almost equal to the city; a reformation of which had been often in contemplation, never pursued, wise men foreseeing that such a fulness could not be there, without an emptiness in other places; and whilst so many persons of honour and estates were so delighted with the city, the government of the country must be neglected, besides the excess, and ill husbandry, that would be introduced thereby. But such foresight was interpreted a morosity, and too great an oppression upon the common liberty; and so, little was applied to prevent so growing a disease.

As it had these and many other advantages and helps to be rich, so it was looked upon too much of late time as a common stock not easy to be exhausted, and as a body not to be grieved by ordinary acts of injustice; and therefore, it was not only a resort, in all cases of necessity, for the sudden borrowing great sums of money, in which they were commonly too good merchants for the crown, but it was thought reasonable, upon any specious pretences, to void the security, that was at any time given for money so borrowed.

So after many questionings of their charter, which were ever removed by considerable sums of money, a grant made by the king in the beginning of his reign (in consideration of great sums of money) of good quantities of land in Ireland, and the city of Londonderry there, was avoided by a suit in the star-chamber; all the lands, after a vast expense in building and planting, resumed into the king's hands, and a fine of fifty thousand pounds imposed upon the city.

Which sentence being pronounced after a long and public hearing, which time they were often invited to a composition, both in respect of the substance, and the circumstances of proceeding, made a general impression in the minds of the citizens of all conditions, much to the disadvantage of the court; and though the king afterwards remitted to them the benefit of that sentence, they imputed that to the power of the parliament, and rather remembered how it had been taken from them, than by whom it was restored;

so that, at the beginning of the parliament, the city was as ill affected to the court as the country was; and therefore chose such burgesses to sit there, as had either eminently opposed it, or accidentally been oppressed by it.

The chief government and superintendency of the city is in the mayor and aldermen; which, in that little kingdom, resembles the house of peers; and as subordinate the common council is the representative body thereof, like the house of commons, to order and agree to all taxes, rates, and such particulars belonging to the civil policy.

The common council are chosen every year, so many for every parish, of the wisest and most substantial citizens, by the vestry and common convention of the people of that parish; and as the wealthiest and best reputed men were always chosen, so, though the election was once a year, it was scarce ever known that any man once chosen was afterwards rejected or left out, except upon discovery of an enormous crime, or decaying in fortune to a bankrupt; otherwise, till he was called to be alderman, or died, he continued, and was every year returned of the common council.

After the beginning of this parliament, when they found by their experience in the case of the Earl of Strafford, of what consequence the city might be to them, and afterwards found, by the courage of the present lord mayor, Sir Richard Gurney, who cannot be too often nor too honourably mentioned, that it might be kept from being disposed by them; and that the men of wealth and ability, who at first had concurred with them, began

now to discern that they meant to lead them further than they

had a mind to go; they directed their confidants, that at the

election of the common councilmen by the concurrence and

number of the meaner people, all such who were moderate men,

and lovers of the present government, should be rejected; and

in their places men of the most active and pragmatical heads, of

how mean fortunes soever, should be elected; and by this means

all that body consisted of upstart, factious, indigent companions,

who were ready to receive all advertisements and directions from

those who steered at Westminster, and as forward to encroach

upon their superiors, the mayor and aldermen, as the other was

upon the house of peers. And so this firebrand of privilege

inflamed the city at that time.

(From the Same.)

CHARACTER OF HAMPDEN

Mr. Hampden was a gentleman of a good family in Buckingham-

shire, and born to a fair fortune, and of a most civil and affable

deportment. In his entrance into the world, he indulged to

himself all the license in sports and exercises, and company,

which was used by men of the most jolly conversation. After-

wards, he retired to a more reserved and melancholy society, yet

preserving his own natural cheerfulness, and vivacity, and above

all, a flowing courtesy to all men; though they who conversed

nearly with him, found him growing into a dislike of the ecclesi-

astical government of the church, yet most believed it rather a

dislike of some churchmen, and of some introducements of theirs,

which he apprehended might disquiet the public peace. He was

rather of reputation in his own country, than of public discourse,

or fame in the kingdom, before the business of ship-money; but

then he grew the argument of all tongues, every man inquiring

who and what he was, that durst, at his own charge, support the

liberty and property of the kingdom, and rescue his country, as

he thought, from being made a prey to the court. His carriage,

throughout this agitation, was with that rare temper and modesty,

that they who watched him narrowly to find some advantage

against his person, to make him less resolute in his cause, were

compelled to give him a just testimony. And the judgment that

was given against him infinitely more advanced him, than the service for which it was given. When this parliament began (being returned knight of the shire for the county where he lived), the eyes of all men were fixed on him, as their patriae pater, and the pilot that must steer the vessel through the tempests and rocks which threatened it. And I am persuaded, his power and interest, at that time, was greater to do good or hurt, than any man's in the kingdom, or than any man of his rank hath had at any time : for his reputation of honesty was universal, and his affections seemed so publicly guided, that no corrupt or private ends could bias them.

He was of that rare affability and temper in debate, and of that seeming humility and submission in judgment, as if he brought no opinion with him, but a desire of information and instruction ; yet he had so subtle a way of interrogating, and, under the notion of doubts, insinuating his objections, that he left his opinions with those from whom he pretended to learn and receive them. And even with them who were able to preserve themselves from his infusions, and discerned those opinions to be fixed in him, to which they could not comply, he always left the character of an ingenious and conscientious person. He was indeed a very wise man, and of great parts, and possessed with the most absolute spirit of popularity, that is the most absolute faculties to govern the people, of any man I ever knew. For the first year of the parliament, he seemed rather to moderate and soften the violent and distempered humours, than to inflame them. But wise and dispassioned men plainly discerned that that moderation proceeded from prudence, and observation that the season was not ripe, rather than that he approved of the moderation ; and that he begat many opinions and motions, the education whereof he committed to other men ; so far disguising his own designs, that he seemed seldom to wish more than was concluded ; and in many gross conclusions, which would hereafter contribute to designs not yet set on foot, when he found them sufficiently backed up by majority of voices, he would withdraw himself before the question, that he might seem not to consent to so much visible unreasonableness ; which produced as great a doubt in some, as it did approbation in others, of his integrity.

What combination soever had been originally with the Scots for the invasion of England, and what farther was entered into afterwards in favour of them, and to advance any alteration [of

the government] in parliament, no man doubts was at least with

the privity of this gentleman.

After he was among those members accused by the king of

high treason, he was much altered; his nature and carriage

seeming much fiercer than it did before. And without question,

when he first drew his sword, he threw away the scabbard; for

he passionately opposed the overture made by the king for a

treaty from Nottingham, and as eminently, any expedients that

might have produced any accommodations in this that was at

Oxford; and was principally relied on, to prevent any infusions

which might be made into the Earl of Essex towards peace, or to

render them ineffectual, if they were made; and was indeed

much more relied on by that party, than the general himself. In

the first entrance into the troubles, he undertook the command of

a regiment of foot, and performed the duty of a colonel, on all

occasions, most punctually. He was very temperate in diet, and

a supreme governor over all his passions and affections, and had

thereby a great power over other men's. He was of an industry

and vigilance not to be tired out, or wearied by the most labori-

ous; and of parts not to be imposed upon by the most subtle or

sharp; and of a personal courage equal to his best parts; so

that he was an enemy not to be wished wherever he might have

been made a friend; and as much to be apprehended where he